I've
a roof over my head at the least, and a wife and children, and two cows--
one bears autumn and one spring--and then a pig, and that's all I can say
I own. So better not boast about that. But if you reckon it up, it amounts
to a bit of a holding after all."
"It's all very well for you, the way you've got on," said I.
Lars is friendlier than ever after this appreciation; he wishes me no end
of good, and goes on:
"There's none could get on better than yourself, for that matter. With the
knack you've got for all kinds of work, and writing and figuring into the
bargain. But it's your own fault. You might have done as I told you these
six, seven years ago, and taken one of the other girls on the place, like
I did with Emma, and settled down here for good. Then you wouldn't be
going about now from place to place. But I say the same again now."
"It's too late," I answered.
"Ay, you're terribly grey. I don't know who you could reckon to get now
about here. How old are you now?"
"Don't ask me!"
"Not exactly a young one, perhaps, but still--What was I going to say?
Come up with me a little, and maybe I'll remember.
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