It was no use trying to hide the fact: Isak was not a bit sure of
himself now. He could find no self-possession, but still kept aloof,
shy, as if ashamed of himself. How old could his wife be now? She
couldn't be less than thirty--that is to say, she couldn't be more, of
course. And Isak, for all that he was eating already, must pull up a
twig of heather and fall to biting that.

"What--are you eating heather?" cried Inger laughingly.

Isak threw down the twig, took a mouthful of food, and going over to
the road, took the horse by its forelegs and heaved up its forepart
till the animal stood on its hindlegs. Inger looked on with
astonishment.

"What are you doing that for?" she asked.

"Oh, he's so playful," said Isak, and set the horse down again.

Now what _had_ he done that for? A sudden impulse to do just that
thing; perhaps he had done it to hide his embarrassment.

They started off again, and all three of them walked a bit of the way.
They came to a new farm.

"What's that there?" asked Inger.

"'Tis Brede's place, that he's bought."

"Brede?"