[Subsection]

Aunt Anne was not going to have a child.

For a long time Per had been expecting somebody to talk about it. Such things were always talked about by someone. But nobody said anything. Auntie was just as before. So he was relieved of that worry.

All this idle gossip you heard: She's landed herself with a child now, I suppose, said people about this person and that.

They said it without feeling the slightest sympathy for whoever they were talking about. Rather, they said it in such a way that it turned your stomach. People were full of idle gossip.

Auntie would escape their wicked tongues.

But she would have been wonderfully kind to the baby; he would have had more milk than he knew what to do with.

Now she looked just as before: good to look at. And yet, as they toiled in the steaming field during the spring plowing, there was a difference from last year all the same. Per thought about the happy days in the potato field last autumn.

Father was sitting resting in front of Goldie. The horse was dozing with fatigue, his head hanging almost as low as Father's shoulders. Per's back was aching from weeding. Aunt Anne was sitting close by, resting her back too.

So she was not going to have a child by that good-for-nothing. Per could not help thinking of him with horror.

He was still alive. Per saw him on the road sometimes and a flash of horror shot through his body. That man must be on the brink of death and destruction---and yet he went like others to the storekeeper and bought coffee and sugar and shoe leather as if nothing had happened. He talked about the weather, and gossiped about people, and laughed. He was still alive, and it had happened six months ago.

"Look at Goldie," said Auntie, close to his ear.

He started out of his thoughts.

"What?"

The yellow horse was resting his muzzle on Father's shoulder. Father was sitting stock still.

"Look at your father and Goldie," said the soft, pleasant voice behind Per.