"I mean that, if it's as I think, and our Sven's meant to be a picture and example and show the way to others, then it can't be right for him to live here on this bit of an island like a hermit." Mor Elversson looked at her husband, and a wealth of tenderness shone in her eyes. "_You've_ lived on this bit of an island all your life," she said. "But there's folk enough have been able to come and learn from you and plague you with no end of things." Joel waved his hand impatiently. "What's that compared to Sven? I never learned things when I was young, but Sven--he was set to it in time. There's nothing to stand in his way." "There's one thing...." "There's that, of course...." "And that's everywhere, where you'd least expect it. Like a cat lying in wait, and before you know, it's at his throat." "Ay," said Joel. "That's just the trouble. And what's done can't be undone. There's no sort of miracle could keep that cat from flying at him." "But, Joel, remember, if it hadn't been for the trouble, he'd never have come back home to us again. Though I know in my heart he's innocent," she added. And again and again she said the same. So overjoyed was she at having her son back home that she could hardly understand why he and his father troubled themselves about what other folk thought. "Never heed them," she said to Sven. "They're just foolish. You're better than all of them. The one that sneered at you the other day when you went to the post, he'd be in prison for forgery if he had his due. Don't fancy he's any call to look down on others." But as time went on, she could not but feel that Joel was right, and that her son was gradually becoming a recluse, shunning his fellows altogether. And not only that. His manner had grown so humble that it almost made him appear ridiculous. He seemed wishful to efface himself altogether in his misery. "No," she thought to herself. "This will never do. Something must happen soon. Surely the Lord will not forsake us altogether." The parish of Applum, to which Grimön belonged, included, not only the level tract of the mainland as seen from the church, but also some dozen little islets off the coast, and the fishing village of Knapefiord, which last, with its boathouses and sheds, long quays and harbour basins, vessels and buoys, seems to spread out as far over the water as over the land. Mor Elversson often rowed over to the village with butter and eggs, and in talking with her customers, housewives who had known her for years, she made frequent endeavours to praise this son of hers who had come home, assuring all that he could never have done any wrong. But she soon found that all her pains were to no purpose. No unkind words were said, but those she spoke to pretended not to hear, as when a person known to be otherwise sensible enough makes some unreasonable assertion.