the fields. It was not difficult to guess his occupation, for he
carried on his shoulder a long-handled paint brush and was
spattered with red paint from his cap to his shoe tips. He kept
glancing round-about, after the manner of journeymen painters, to
find an unpainted farmhouse or one that needed repainting. He had
seen, here and there, one and another which he thought might answer
his purpose, but he could not seem to fix upon any special one.
Then, finally, from the top of a hillock he caught sight of the big
Ingmar Farm down in the valley. "Great Caesar!" he exclaimed, and
stopped short. "That farmhouse hasn't been painted in a hundred
years. Why, it's black with age, and the barns have never seen a
drop of point. Here there's work enough to keep me busy till fall."

A little farther on he came upon a man plowing. "Why, there's a
farmer who belongs here and knows all about this neighbourhood,"
thought the painter. "He can tell me all I need know about that
homestead yonder." Whereupon he crossed the path into the field,
stepped up to Ingmar, and asked him if he thought the folks living
over there wanted any painting done.

Ingmar Ingmarsson was startled, and stood staring at the man as
though he were a ghost.

"Lord, as I live, it's a painter!" he remarked to himself. "And to
think of his coming just now!" He was so dumbfounded that he could
not answer the man. He distinctly recalled that every time any one
had said to his father: "You ought to have that big, ugly house of
yours painted, Father Ingmar," the old man had always replied that
he would have it done the year Ingmar married.