Nils watched them until they had shrunk to a mere moving speck against the sky, then he crossed the sand creek and climbed the hill. When he reached the gate the front of the house was dark, but a light was shining from the side windows. The pigs were squealing in the hog corral, and Nils could see a tall boy, who carried two big wooden buckets, moving about among them. Half way between the barn and the house, the windmill wheezed lazily. Following the path that ran around to the back porch, Nils stopped to look through the screen door into the lamp-lit kitchen. The kitchen was the largest room in the house; Nils remembered that his older brothers used to give dances there when he was a boy. Beside the stove stood a little girl with two light yellow braids and a broad, flushed face, peering anxiously into a frying-pan. In the dining-room beyond, a large, broad-shouldered woman was moving about the table. She walked with an active, springy step. Her face was heavy and florid, almost without wrinkles, and her hair was black at seventy. Nils felt proud of her as he watched her deliberate activity; never a momentary hesitation, or a movement that did not tell. He waited until she came out into the kitchen and, brushing the child aside, took her place at the stove. Then he tapped on the screen door and entered. "It's nobody but Nils, Mother. I expect you weren't looking for me." Mrs. Ericson turned away from the stove and stood staring at him. "Bring the lamp, Hilda, and let me look." Nils laughed and unslung his valise. "What's the matter, Mother? Don't you know me?" Mrs. Ericson put down the lamp. "You must be Nils. You don't look very different, anyway." "Nor you, Mother. You hold your own. Don't you wear glasses yet?" "Only to read by. Where's your trunk, Nils?" "Oh, I left that in town. I thought it might not be convenient for you to have company so near threshing-time." "Don't be foolish, Nils." Mrs. Ericson turned back to the stove. "I don't thresh now. I hitched the wheat land onto the next farm and have a tenant. Hilda, take some hot water up to the company room, and go call little Eric." The tow-haired child, who had been standing in mute amazement, took up the tea-kettle and withdrew, giving Nils a long, admiring look from the door of the kitchen stairs. "Who's the youngster?" Nils asked, dropping down on the bench behind the kitchen stove. "One of your Cousin Henrik's." "How long has Cousin Henrik been dead?" "Six years. There are two boys. One stays with Peter and one with Anders. Olaf is their guardeen." There was a clatter of pails on the porch, and a tall, lanky boy peered wonderingly in through the screen door. He had a fair, gentle face and big gray eyes, and wisps of soft yellow hair hung down under his cap. Nils sprang up and pulled him into the kitchen, hugging him and slapping him on the shoulders. "Well, if it isn't my kid! Look at the size of him! Don't you know me, Eric?"