Whether he had ancestors of lofty lineage or not, Harald Hansen was simply a village inn-keeper.

The house had come down to him from his father and from his grandfather, who were widely known and respected, and after his death his widow continued the business in a way that elicited universal commendation.
Whether or not Harald had made a fortune in the business, no one was able to say; but he had been able to rear his son Joel and his daughter Hulda in comfort; and Ole Kamp, a son of his wife's sister, had also been brought up like one of his own children.

But for his uncle Harald, this orphan child would doubtless have been one of those poor creatures who come into the world only to leave it; and Ole Kamp evinced a truly filial devotion toward his parents by adoption.
Nothing would ever sever the tie that bound him to the Hansen family, to which his marriage with Hulda was about to bind him still more closely.
Harald Hansen had died about eighteen months before, leaving his wife, in addition to the inn, a small farm on the mountain, a piece of property which yielded very meager returns, if any.

This was especially true of late, for the seasons had been remarkably unpropitious, and agriculture of every kind had suffered greatly, even the pastures.

There had been many of those "iron nights," as the Norwegian peasants call them--nights of north-easterly gales and ice that kill the corn down to the very root--and that meant ruin to the farmers of the Telemark and the Hardanger.
Still, whatever Dame Hansen might think of the situation of affairs, she had never said a word to any living soul, not even to her children.