He came out once or
twice to where we were at work, and he carried no umbrella, but let
himself get drenched to the skin.
"Grand weather for the crops!" he would say; or again, "Looks like being
an extra special harvest this year!" But when he went back to the house
there was only himself and loneliness to meet him. "We're better off
ourselves than he is now," said Nils.
So we worked away at the potatoes, and when they were done there were the
turnips. And by the time we were through with them the weather began to
clear. Ideal weather, all that one could wish for. Nils and I were as
proud of it all as if we owned the place.
And now the haymaking began in earnest: the maids were out, spreading in
the wake of the machine, and Grindhusen was set to work with a scythe in
the corners and awkward parts where the machine could not go. And I got
out my stone-grey paint and set about the house.
The Captain came up. "What colour's that you've got here?" he asked.
What could I say to that? I was nervous, I know, but my greatest fear was
lest I should not be allowed to paint it grey after all.
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