In a few years his unprincipled wife warped the probity of a lifetime. He speculated, lost his own fortune and funds entrusted to him by poor seafaring men, and died disgraced, leav-ing his children nothing. But when all was said, he had come up from the sea himself, had built up a proud little business with no capital but his own skill and foresight, and had proved himself a man. In his daughter, John Bergson recog-nized the strength of will, and the simple direct way of thinking things out, that had charac-terized his father in his better days. He would much rather, of course, have seen this likeness in one of his sons, but it was not a question of choice. As he lay there day after day he had to accept the situation as it was, and to be thank-ful that there was one among his children to whom he could entrust the future of his family and the possibilities of his hard-won land.
The winter twilight was fading. The sick man heard his wife strike a match in the kitchen, and the light of a lamp glimmered through the cracks of the door. It seemed like a light shin-ing far away. He turned painfully in his bed and looked at his white hands, with all the work gone out of them. He was ready to give up, he felt. He did not know how it had come about, but he was quite willing to go deep un-der his fields and rest, where the plow could not find him. He was tired of making mistakes. He was content to leave the tangle to other hands;he thought of his Alexandra's strong ones.
"DOTTER," he called feebly, "DOTTER!" He heard her quick step and saw her tall figure appear in the doorway, with the light of the lamp behind her. He felt her youth and strength, how easily she moved and stooped and lifted. But he would not have had it again if he could, not he! He knew the end too well to wish to begin again. He knew where it all went to, what it all became.
His daughter came and lifted him up on his pillows. She called him by an old Swedish name that she used to call him when she was little and took his dinner to him in the shipyard.
"Tell the boys to come here, daughter. Iwant to speak to them."
"They are feeding the horses, father. They have just come back from the Blue. Shall Icall them?"
He sighed. "No, no. Wait until they come in. Alexandra, you will have to do the best you can for your brothers. Everything will come on you.""I will do all I can, father."
"Don't let them get discouraged and go off like Uncle Otto. I want them to keep the land.""We will, father. We will never lose the land."There was a sound of heavy feet in the kitchen. Alexandra went to the door and beck-oned to her brothers, two strapping boys of seventeen and nineteen. They came in and stood at the foot of the bed. Their father looked at them searchingly, though it was too dark to see their faces; they were just the same boys, he told himself, he had not been mistaken in them.
The square head and heavy shoulders belonged to Oscar, the elder. The younger boy was quicker, but vacillating.
