Now he saw Mother better. She was always where she was needed, when clothes were torn and when any of them wanted food and drink. But she was not close to Per. He did not want to come closer to her. Sometimes Mother looked as if she were about to say something that he was sure would prove embarrassing. On these occasions he either went away or scotched it by talking nonsense. Mother must not read his heart; nobody must do that.

Everything glided forward, interlocked as it was supposed to be, so that nobody paid any attention to it. What was to be used appeared; what had been used was hidden away and only brought out again when it had to be used once more---and then it was mended and clean. It occurred to Per that Mother did all this. The days themselves passed through Mother's hands and were ordered by her before they reached other people.

Then another idea occurred to him, an uncomfortable one: without Mother everything would come to a standstill, grind to a halt, go to pieces. All would be changed into dark night.

But she never came to a standstill. There was no darkness. So there was no need to think about it again for a long time. Mother had always been there.

Was he fond of her? Yes, he was; he knew that. Sometimes he thought about her with great joy and affection. But he did not want to be involved in her thoughts; it would embarrass him. And he did not want to talk about his own thoughts.

Occasionally Mother's voice was impatient, usually in the evenings. Then she was tired, and they listened to the impatient things she said with a guilty conscience, without replying. Mother was tired because of them.

Sometimes it startled Per to see how dreadfully tired Mother was. He got a very guilty conscience and wondered what could be done so that Mother need not work so hard. Then he would do some chore or other in the house without being asked, throwing out water, fetching in wood. Mother would sit half asleep, staring into her lap.

Father would sit the whole evening with the smell of the earth about him, powerful and calm like a statue.

They went to bed, and in the morning Mother was once more the one who set things in motion so that Bufast went on running.

Mother was not disheartened. She was contented. It was only when she was over-tired that she could startle and disturb you. Sometimes she sat with a book in her hands in the evening; then the book would fall to the floor, and Mother start up out of sleep.

Mother's tired, they thought. Sometimes it seemed good, because it was late and the whole farm was looking forward to sleep and night.

In any case Mother was behind everything here. Nothing must ever happen to her, so that she was no longer there.

They were settled here for good.

There were great differences between people.

Up on the road people travelled incessantly. Townspeople came to the farms, stayed for a while, and were gone again. A pastor had come to the district a few years ago. Now he had left, and another had moved in. A doctor came. Then he left too, and a new one moved in.

But Per and his family here on the farm did not travel. They were settled for good.

There was a great deal to read in the newspaper which the postman left in the mailbox at the roadside, but nearly always it had to do with movement and journeys and restlessness. You got the impression that the whole world was moving about restlessly like pastors and townspeople.

Per stayed at Bufast summer and winter and all seasons. Sometimes he longed to be able to travel and see things. He read the papers until his mind was full of pictures. He read every word in them.

Much was written in the books too. In the schoolroom there was a cupboard reaching from floor to ceiling full of books that they were allowed to borrow. Per devoured books. So much was in them, and they changed you inside. There were a few books at Bufast too, which he read and reread. Some of them were very old and yellow. Father preferred reading the yellowest ones. Father read the paper as well and sometimes threw it away impatiently, as if what he read was all nonsense. Mother and Aunt Anne read in a different way and quarrelled about some of the things they read about. Father never quarrelled with anyone. He gave his opinion once only.

The paper brought news about great events too. Towns were burned to the ground. The earth opened or spurted out flame. Somewhere people were at war with each other, shooting each other down in heaps. Kings died. Ships sank into the ocean. It was strange: as you read about it, all the pictures inside you seemed to begin to spin and drift, just as if someone were stirring a pot with a stick. Then after a while the world stayed still where it ought to be, just as before, far away, tempting, and frightening.

Per was settled for good, planted on the same patch of earth like a tree.

The hidden wish to get away was still there. When the work he had to do was heavy or boring, the wish emerged; or when the struggle to be rid of the debt to the storekeeper haunted him.

He would have given much not to have to listen to the conversations between Father and Mother about money matters and what they owed the storekeeper the nights when they talked about debts and struggle.

Mother's voice would reach him from the bedroom: "I don't know what we can do to pay off that debt."

Per was lying awake in the kitchen and could not help listening. He lay writhing.

Mother said again: "No matter how much we save it makes no difference."

Father said nothing. Mother continued: "You get nothing for what you sell these days either."

Still Father said nothing. But Mother had more. "Where shall we find the wages for Ivar this year?"

The darkness was thick; autumn was far advanced. Everything outdoors was whispering slightly. No, not everything; it was only the river. Indoors, Mother's voice was making it torture to be awake.

Why couldn't Mother shut up about it! He turned poor and cold inside as he listened. Everything else he might have been thinking about and enjoying was chased out of sight.

Father said nothing.

"Are you asleep?" she asked.

"No," said his earthy voice at last.

Then Mother said nothing more. Per lay awake for a long time. Oh, to get away from all this, he wished. Why did Mother say things that made him so unhappy?

In the morning he expected something dreadful to have happened. Just something. But nothing was dreadful. Aunt Anne came down, energetic and pleasant. Mother came, and things wove themselves out of her hands and turned into things for others. One of her best smiles could come on such a morning after such a gloomy night.

She had regained her courage, and it made you glad. Last night's remarks lost their force. Bufast lay ready for the day. Bufast was eternal and immovable.

Per expected Father to repeat what he had said about staying at Bufast, but he waited in vain. Now that Per was a tall schoolboy, Father seemed to have forgotten about it.

But he knew better. It was not forgotten. He knew Father counted on it, counted on the fact that it had been said. It was as if written in stone.

Per wished: Say something about it, Father!

It was a mystery why he should wish it. It would have been comforting and helpful, however strange it seemed. But Father never said it again during the whole of his life.