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Page 7
"But I can't make father say a word.
"'I have often wondered why it is that we Ingmars have been allowed
to remain on our farm for hundreds of years, while the other farms
have all changed hands. And the thought comes to me that it may be
because the Ingmars have always tried to walk in the ways of God.
We Ingmars need not fear man; we have only to walk in God's ways.'
"Then the old man looks up and says: 'This is a difficult problem,
my son. I guess I'll go in and talk it over with the other Ingmarssons.'
"So father goes back to the living-room, while I remain in the
kitchen. There I sit waiting and waiting, but father does not
return. Then, after hours and hours of this, I get cross and go to
him. 'You must have patience, little Ingmar,' says father. 'This is
a difficult question.' And I see all the old yeomen sitting there
with closed eyes, deep in thought. So I wait and wait and, for
aught I know, must go on waiting."
Smiling, he followed the plow, which was now moving along very
slowly, as if the horses were tired out and could scarcely drag it.
When he came to the end of the furrow he pulled up the plow and
rested. He had become very serious.
"Strange, when you ask anyone's advice you see yourself what is
right. Even while you are asking, you discover all at once what you
hadn't been able to find out in three whole years. Now it shall be
as God wills."
He felt that this thing must be done, but at the same time it
seemed so hard to him that the mere thought of it took away his
courage. "Help me, Lord!" he said.
Ingmar Ingmarsson was, however, not the only person abroad at that
hour. An old man came trudging along the winding path that crossed
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.
The painter put the question a second time, and a third, but Ingmar
stood there, dazed, as if he had not understood him.
"Are they ready at last with their answer?" he wondered. "Is this a
message from father to say that he wishes me to marry this year?"
He was so overwhelmed by the thought that he hired the man on the
spot. Then he went on with his plowing, deeply moved and almost
happy.
"You'll see it won't be so very hard to do this now that you know
for certain it is father's wish," he said.
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