the berries are falling, heavy clusters striking the earth. So they reap
themselves and sow themselves again, an inconceivable abundance to be
squandered every single year. Over three hundred clusters I can count on a
single tree. And here and there about are flowers still in bloom,
obstinate things that will not die, though their time is really past.

But Old Gunhild's time is past as well--and think you she will die? She
goes about as if death were a thing did not concern her. When the
fishermen are down on the beach, painting their boats or darning nets,
comes Gunhild with her vacant eyes, but with a mind as keen as any to a
bargain.

"And what is the price of mackerel today?" she asks.

"The same as yesterday."

"Then you can keep it, for all I care."

And Gunhild goes back home.

But the fishermen know that Gunhild is not one of those that only pretend
to go away; she has gone off like that before now, up to her cottage,
without once looking back. So, "Hey" they call to her, and say they'll
make it seven to the half-dozen today, seeing she is an old customer.

And Gunhild buys her fish.

Washing hangs on the lines to dry; red petticoats and blue shirts, and
under-things of preposterous thickness, all spun and woven on the island
by the old women still left alive. But there is washing, too, of another