the men, even when they mentioned cornstalk bloat, upon which he
was sure to have opinions.

"Did you want to speak to me, Ivar?" Alexandra asked as she rose
from the table. "Come into the sitting-room."

The old man followed Alexandra, but when she motioned him to a chair
he shook his head. She took up her workbasket and waited for him
to speak. He stood looking at the carpet, his bushy head bowed,
his hands clasped in front of him. Ivar's bandy legs seemed to
have grown shorter with years, and they were completely misfitted
to his broad, thick body and heavy shoulders.

"Well, Ivar, what is it?" Alexandra asked after she had waited
longer than usual.

Ivar had never learned to speak English and his Norwegian was quaint
and grave, like the speech of the more old-fashioned people. He
always addressed Alexandra in terms of the deepest respect, hoping
to set a good example to the kitchen girls, whom he thought too
familiar in their manners.

"Mistress," he began faintly, without raising his eyes, "the folk
have been looking coldly at me of late. You know there has been
talk."

"Talk about what, Ivar?"

"About sending me away; to the asylum."