Other Events and Attributes:

• Baptism: 24 Oct 1858, Øye Kirke

Notes:

1866 It was always the weakest who went first, both young and old. Anne had always been a frail child. She was no great beauty, a solemn little creature with a pinched face and pale skin covered with freckles. Some superstitious folk even found fault with her reddish hair. But she was the darling of her sister and brothers, and they catered to her every desire. Especially Trond. They made a strange pair, the tall young man of nineteen and his eight-year-old little sister. She liked to follow him around the farm while he finished his chores, and he listened to her chatter and answered her questions with the patienc e of a man many years his senior. He always took the time, too, to carry her back to the house when her strength carne to an end. Sometimes he wondered how tired she really was. "Let me ride on your shoulders and we'll pretend that you're my horse!" But one day she was not pretending. Her pallor was more pronounced than usual when he carried her into the house. She didn't have much to say when her mother put her to bed that night, either. Anne Helgesdattir didn't wake up the next morning. And it was December, only two days short of seven years since her father's funeral. It was the month of death, when the jule spirits roam. Berit bowed beneath her grief as if she carried a heavy load on her back. There were few tears left to flow. Ingeborg and the younger boys wiped their eyes as they faced the strange emptiness of a life