Johannes asked no one to help him; he kept the door of the outhouse

carefully closed and did his work with great secrecy. He was cooking

the whole night, and the next morning at breakfast he ordered the

children not to say a word of what he had been doing. During the

morning he disappeared and returned with a mincing-machine, he took

the block too into the outhouse. He came to his meals covered with

blood, fat and scraps of meat. He looked dreadful and smelled even

worse. But he certainly worked hard; he did not even allow himself

time to sleep.

Late in the afternoon he opened the door of the outhouse wide: the

work was done.

"Here you are, come and look!" he shouted. From a stick under the

ceiling hung a long row of sausages, beautiful to look at, bright

and freshly colored; no-one would guess what they were made of. On

the big washing-board lay meat, cut into neat joints and bright red

in color--this was the best part of the horse. And there was a big

pail of fat, which had not quite stiffened. "That's grease," said

Johannes, stirring it, "but as a matter of fact it's quite nice for

dripping. Looks quite tasty, eh?"

"It shan't come into our kitchen," said Ditte, making a face at the

things.

"You needn't be afraid, my girl; sausage-makers never eat their own

meat," answered Johannes.

"What are you going to do with it now?" asked Lars Peter, evidently

knowing what the answer would be.

"Sell it, of course!" Johannes showed his white teeth, as he took a

sausage. "Just feel how firm and round it is."

"If you think you can sell them here, you're very much mistaken. You

don't know the folks in these parts."

"Here? of course not! Drive over to the other side of the lake where

no-one knows me, or what they're made of. We often used to make

these at my old place. All the bad stuff we bought in one county, we

sold in another. No-one ever found us out. Simple enough, isn't

it?"

"I'll have nothing to do with it," said Lars Peter determinedly.

"Don't want you to--you're not the sort for this work. I'm off

tomorrow, but you must get me another horse. If I have to drive with

that rusty old threshing-machine in there, I shan't be back for a

whole week. Never saw such a beast. If he was mine I'd make him into

sausages."

"That you shall never do," answered Lars Peter offendedly. "The

horse is good enough, though maybe he's not to your liking."

The fact was they did not suit each other--Johannes and Klavs; they

were like fire and water. Johannes preferred to fly along the

highroad; but soon found out it wouldn't do. Then he expected that

the nag--since it could no longer gallop and was so slow to set

going--should keep moving when he jumped off. As a butcher he was

accustomed to jump off the cart, run into a house with a piece of

meat, catch up with the cart and jump on again--without stopping the

horse. But Klavs did not feel inclined for these new tricks. The

result was they clashed. Johannes made up his mind to train the

horse, and kept striking it with the thick end of the whip. Klavs

stopped in amazement. Twice he kicked up his hind legs--warningly,

then turned round, broke the shafts, and tried to get up into the

cart. He showed his long teeth in a grin, which might mean: Just let

me get you under my hoofs, you black rascal! This happened on the

highroad the day he had gone out to buy cattle. Lars Peter and the

children knew that the two were enemies. When Johannes entered the

barn, Klavs at once laid back his ears and was prepared to both bite

and fight. There was no mistaking the signs.

Next morning, before Johannes started out, Kristian was sent over

with the nag to a neighbor who lived north of the road, and got

their horse in exchange.

"It belonged to a butcher for many years, so you ought to get on

with it," said Lars Peter as they harnessed it.

It was long and thin, just the sort for Johannes. As soon as he was

in the cart, the horse knew what kind of man held the reins. It set

off with a jerk, and passed the corner of the house like a flash of

lightning. The next minute they were up on the highroad, rushing

along in a whirl of dust. Johannes bumped up and down on the seat,

shouted and flourished his whip, and held the reins over his head.

They seemed possessed by the devil.

"He shan't touch Klavs again," mumbled Lars Peter as he went in.

The next day Johannes came back with notes in his pocketbook and a

mare running behind the cart. It was the same kind of horse as the

one he drove, only a little more stiff in its movements; he had

bought it for next to nothing--to be killed.

"But it would be a sin to kill it; it's not too far gone to enjoy

life yet, eh, old lady?" said he, slapping its back. The mare

whinnied and threw up its hind legs.

"'Tis nigh on thirty," said Lars Peter, peering into its mouth.

"It may not be up to much, but the will's there right enough, just

look at it!" He cracked his whip and the old steed threw its head

back and started off. It didn't get very far, however, its movements

were jerky and painful.

"Quite a high flier," said Lars Peter laughingly, "it looks as if a

breath of air would blow it up to heaven. But are you sure it's not

against the law to use it, when it's sold to be killed?"

Johannes nodded. "They won't know it when I've finished with it,"

said he.

As soon as he had had a meal, and got into his working clothes, he

started to remodel the horse. He clipped its mane and tail, and

cropped the hair round its hoofs.

"It only wants a little brown coloring to dye the gray hair--and a

couple of bottles of arsenic, and then you'll see how smart and

young she'll be. The devil himself wouldn't know her again."

"Did you learn these tricks from your master?" asked Lars Peter.

"No, from the old man. Never seen him at it?"

Lars Peter could not remember. "It must have been after my time,"

said he, turning away.

"'Tis a good old family trick," said Johannes.

* * * * *

That there was money to be made from the new business was soon

evident, and Lars Peter got over his indignation. He let Johannes

drive round buying and selling, while he himself remained at home,

making sausages, soap and grease from the refuse. He had been an apt

pupil, it was the old family trade.

The air round the Crow's Nest stank that summer. People held their

noses and whipped up their horses as they passed by. Johannes

brought home money in plenty and they lacked for nothing. But

neither Lars Peter nor the children were happy. They felt that the

Crow's Nest was talked about more even than before. And the worst of

it was, they no longer felt this to be an injustice. People had

every right to look down on them now; there was not the consolation

that their honor was unassailable.

Johannes did not care. He was out on the road most of the time. He

made a lot of money, and was proud of it too. He often bought cattle

and sold them again. He was dissipated, so it was said--played cards

with fellows of his own kidney, and went to dances. Sometimes after

a brawl, he would come home with a wounded head and a black eye.

Apparently he spent a great deal of money; no-one could say how much

he made. That was his business, but he behaved as if he alone kept

things going, and was easily put out. Lars Peter never interfered,

he liked peace in the house.

One day, however, they quarreled in earnest. Johannes had always had

his eye on the nag, and one day when Lars Peter was away, he dragged

it out of the stall and tied it up, he was going to teach it to

behave, he said to the children. With difficulty he harnessed it to

the cart, it lashed its tail and showed its teeth, and when Johannes

wanted it to set off, refused to stir, however much it was lashed.

At last, beside himself with temper, he jumped off the cart, seized

a shaft from the harrow, and began hitting at its legs with all his

might. The children screamed. The horse was trembling, bathed in

perspiration, its flanks heaving violently. Each time he jumped up

to it, the nag kicked up its hind legs, and at last giving up the

fight, Johannes threw away his weapon and went into his room.

Ditte had tried to throw herself between them, but had been brushed

aside; now she went up to the horse. She unharnessed it, gave it

water to drink, and put a wet sack over its wounds, while the little

ones stood round crying and offering it bread. Shortly afterwards

Johannes came out; he had changed his clothes. Quickly, without a

look at any one, he harnessed and drove off. The little ones came

out from their hiding-place and gazed after him.

"Is he going away now?" asked sister Else.

"I only wish he would, or the horse bolt, so he could never find his

way back again, nasty brute," said Kristian. None of them liked him

any longer.

A man came along the footpath down by the marsh, it was their

father. The children ran to meet him, and all started to tell what

had happened. Lars Peter stared at them for a moment, as if he

could not take in what they had said, then set off at a run; Ditte

followed him into the stable. There stood Klavs, looking very

miserable; the poor beast still trembled when they spoke to it; its

body was badly cut. Lars Peter's face was gray.

"He may thank the Lord that he's not here now!" he said to Ditte. He

examined the horse's limbs to make sure no bones were broken; the

nag carefully lifted one leg, then the other, and moaned.

"Blood-hound," said Lars Peter, softly stroking its legs, "treating

poor old Klavs like that."

Klavs whinnied and scraped the stones with his hoofs. He took

advantage of his master's sympathy and begged for an extra supply of

corn.

"You should give him a good beating," said Kristian seriously.

"I've a mind to turn him out altogether," answered the father

darkly. "'Twould be best for all of us."

"Yes, and d'you know, Father? Can you guess why the Johansens

haven't been to see us this summer? They're afraid of what we'll

give them to eat; they say we make food from dead animals."

"Where did you hear that, Ditte?" Lars Peter looked at her in blank

despair.

"The children shouted it after me today. They asked if I wouldn't

like a dead cat to make sausages."

"Ay, I thought as much," he laughed miserably. "Well, we can do

without them,--what the devil do I want with them!" he shouted so

loudly that little Povl began to cry.

"Hush now, I didn't mean to frighten you," Lars Peter took him in

his arms. "But it's enough to make a man lose his temper."

Two days afterwards, Johannes returned home, looking as dirty and

rakish as he possibly could. Lars Peter had to help him out of the

cart, he could hardly stand on his legs. But he was not at loss for

words. Lars Peter was silent at his insolence and dragged him into

the barn, where he at once fell asleep. There he lay like a dead

beast, deathly white, with a lock of black hair falling over his

brow, and plastered on his forehead--he looked a wreck. The children

crept over to the barn-door and peered at him through the half dark;

when they caught sight of him they rushed out with terror into the

fields. It was too horrible.

Lars Peter went to and fro, cutting hay for the horses. As he passed

his brother, he stopped, and looked at him thoughtfully. That was

how a man should look to keep up with other people: smooth and

polished outside, and cold and heartless inside. No-one looked down

on him just because he had impudence. Women admired him, and made

some excuse to pass on the highroad in the evenings, and as for the

men--his dissipation and his fights over girls probably overwhelmed

them.

Lars Peter put his hand into his brother's pocket and took out the

pocketbook--it was empty! He had taken 150 crowns with him from

their joint savings--to be used for buying cattle, it was all the

money there was in the house; and now he had squandered it all.

His hands began to tremble. He leant over his brother, as if to

seize him; but straightened himself and left the barn. He hung about

for two or three hours, to give his brother time to sleep off the

drink, then went in again. This time he would settle up. He shook

his brother and wakened him.

"Where's the money to buy the calf?" asked he.

"What's that to you?" Johannes threw himself on his other side.

Lars Peter dragged him to his feet. "I want to speak to you," said

he.

"Oh, go to hell," mumbled Johannes. He did not open his eyes, and

tumbled back into the hay.

Lars Peter brought a pail of ice-cold water from the well.

"I'll wake you, whether you like it or not!" said he, throwing the

pailful of water over his head.

Like a cat Johannes sprang to his feet, and drew his knife. He

turned round, startled by the rude awakening; caught sight of his

brother and rushed at him. Lars Peter felt a stab in his cheek, the

blade of the knife struck against his teeth. With one blow he

knocked Johannes down, threw himself on him, wrestling for the

knife. Johannes was like a cat, strong and quick in his movements;

he twisted and turned, used his teeth, and tried to find an opening

to stab again. He was foaming at the mouth. Lars Peter warded off

the attacks with his hands, which were bleeding already from several

stabs. At last he got his knee on his brother's chest.

Johannes lay gasping for breath. "Let me go!" he hissed.

"Ay, if you'll behave properly," said Lars Peter, relaxing his grip

a little. "You're my youngest brother, and I'm loth to harm you; but

I'll not be knocked down like a pig by you."

With a violent effort Johannes tried to throw off his brother. He

got one arm free, and threw himself to one side, reaching for the

knife, which lay a good arm's length away.

"Oh, that's your game!" said Lars Peter, forcing him down on to the

floor of the barn with all his weight, "I'd better tie you up. Bring

a rope, children!"

The three stood watching outside the barn-door; one behind the

other. "Come on!" shouted the father. Then Kristian rushed in for

Ditte, and she brought a rope. Without hesitation she went up to the

two struggling men, and gave it to her father. "Shall I help you?"

said she.

"No need for that, my girl," said Lars Peter, and laughed. "Just

hold the rope, while I turn him over."

He bound his brother's hands firmly behind his back, then set him on

his feet and brushed him. "You look like a pig," said he, "you must

have been rolling on the muddy road. Go indoors quietly or you'll

be sorry for it. No fault of yours that you're not a murderer

today."

Johannes was led in, and set down in the rush-bottomed armchair

beside the fire. The children were sent out of doors, and Ditte and

Kristian ordered to harness Uncle Johannes' horse.

"Now we're alone, I'll tell you that you've behaved like a

scoundrel," said Lars Peter slowly. "Here have I been longing for

many a year to see some of my own kin, and when you came it was like

a message from home. I'd give much never to have had it now. All of

us saw something good in you; we didn't expect much, so there wasn't

much for you to live up to. But what have you done? Dragged us into

a heap of filth and villainy and wickedness. We've done with you

here--make no mistake about that. You can take the one horse and

cart and whatever else you can call your own, and off you go!

There's no money to be got; you've wasted more than you've earned."

Johannes made no answer, and avoided his brother's eyes.

The cart was driven up outside. Lars Peter led him out, and lifted

him like a child on to the seat. He loosened the rope with his cut

and bleeding hands; the blood from the wound on his cheek ran down

on to his chin and clothes. "Get off with you," said he

threateningly, wiping the blood from his chin, "and be smart about

it."

Johannes sat for a moment swaying in the cart, as if half asleep.

Suddenly he pulled himself together, and with a shout of laughter

gathered up the reins and quickly set off round the corner of the

house up to the highroad.

Lars Peter stood gazing after the horse and cart, then went in and

washed off the blood. Ditte bathed his wounds in cold water and put

on sticking-plaster.

For the next few days they were busy getting rid of all traces of

that summer's doings. Lars Peter dug down the remainder of the

refuse, threw the block away, and cleaned up. When some farmer or

other at night knocked on the window-panes with his whip, shouting:

"Lars Peter, I've got a dead animal for you!" he made no answer. No

more sausage-making, no more trading in carrion for him!

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAST OF THE CROW'S NEST

Ditte went about singing at her work; she had no-one to help her,

and ran about to and fro. One eye was bound up, and each time she

crossed the kitchen she lifted the bandage and bathed her eye with

something brown in a cup. The eye was bloodshot, and hurt, and

showed the colors of the rainbow, but all the same she was happy.

Indeed, it was the sore eye which put her in such a happy mood. They

were going away from the Crow's Nest, right away and forever, and it

was all on account of her eye.

Lars Peter came home; he had been out for a walk. He hung up his

stick behind the kitchen door. "Well, how's the eye getting on?" he

asked, as he began to take off his boots.

"Oh, it's much better now. And what did the schoolmaster say?"

"Ay, what did he say? He thought it good and right that you should

stand up for your little brothers and sister. But he did not care to

be mixed up in the affair, and after all 'tis not to be wondered

at."

"Why not? He knows how it all happened--and he's so truthful!"

"Hm--well--truthful! When a well-to-do farmer's son's concerned,

then----. He's all right, but he's got his living to make. He's

afraid of losing his post, if he gets up against the farmers, and

they hang together like peas in a pod. He advised me to let it

drop--especially as we're leaving the place. Nothing would come of

it but trouble and rows again. And maybe it's likely enough. They'd

get their own back at the auction--agree not to bid the things up,

or stay away altogether."

"Then you didn't go to the police about it?"

"Ay, but I did. But he thought too there wasn't much to be made of

the case. Oh, and the schoolmaster said you needn't go to school for

the rest of the time--he'd see it was all right. He's a kind man,

even if he is afraid of his skin."

Ditte was not satisfied. It would have done the big boy good to be

well punished. He had been the first to attack Kristian, and had

afterwards kicked her in her eye with his wooden shoe, because she

had stood up for her brother. And she had been certain in her

childish mind that this time they would get compensation--for the

law made no difference whoever the people were.

"If I'd been a rich farmer's daughter, and he had come from the

Crow's Nest, what then?" she asked hoarsely.

"Oh, he'd have got a good thrashing--if not worse!" said the father.

"That's the way we poor people are treated, and can only be thankful

that we don't get fined into the bargain."

"If you meet the boy, won't you give him a good thrashing?" she

asked shortly afterwards.

"I'd rather give it to his father--but it's better to keep out of

it. We're of no account, you see!"

Kristian came in through the kitchen door. "When I'm bigger, then

I'll creep back here at night and set fire to his farm," said he,

with flashing eyes.

"What's that you say, boy--d'you want to send us all to jail?"

shouted Lars Peter, aghast.

"'Twould do them good," said Ditte, setting to work again. She was

very dissatisfied with the result of her father's visit.

"When're you going to arrange about the auction?" she said stiffly.

"They'll see to that," answered Lars Peter quickly, "I've seen the

clerk about it. He was very kind." Lars Peter was grateful for this,

he did not care to go to the magistrate.

"Ay, he's glad to get rid of us," said Ditte harshly. "That's what

they all are. At school they make a ring and sing about a crow and

an owl and all ugly birds! and the crow and his young steal the

farmer's chickens, but then the farmer takes a long stick and pulls

down the Crow's Nest. Do you think I don't know what they mean?"

Lars Peter was silent, and went back to his work. He too felt

miserable now.

But in the evening, as they sat round the lamp, talking of the

future, all unpleasantness was forgotten. Lars Peter had been

looking round for a place to settle down in, and had fixed on the

fishing-hamlet where he used to buy fish in the old days. The people

seemed to like him, and had often asked him why he didn't settle

down there. "And there's a jolly fellow there, the inn-keeper, he

can do anything. He's rough till you get to know him, but he's got a

kind heart. He's promised to find me a couple of rooms, until we can

build a place for ourselves--and help me to a share in a boat. What

we get from the auction ought to be enough to build a house."

"Is that the man you told us about, who's like a dwarf?" asked Ditte

with interest.

"Ay, he's like a giant and a dwarf mixed together--so to say--he

might well have had the one for a father and the other for a mother.

He's hunch-backed in front and behind, and his face as black as a

crow's, but he can't help that, and otherwise he's all right. He's a

finger in everything down there."

Ditte shuddered. "Sounds like a goblin!" said she.

Lars Peter was going in for fishing now. He had had a great deal to

do in this line during his life, but he himself had never gone out;

his fingers itched to be at it. Ditte too liked the thought of it.

Then she would be near the sea again, which she dimly remembered

from her childhood with Granny. And they would have done with

everything here, and perhaps get rid of the rag and bone name, and

shake off the curse.

Then they had to decide what to take with them. Now that it came to

the point, it was dreadful to part with one's possessions. When they

had gone through things together, and written on Kristian's slate

what was to be sold, there wasn't much put down. They would like to

take it all with them.

"We must go through it again--and have no nonsense," said Lars

Peter. "We can't take the whole bag of tricks with us. Money'll be

needed too--and not so little either."

So they went over the things again one by one. Klavs was out of the

question. It would be a shame to send him to strangers in his old

age; they could feed him on the downs. "It's useful to have,"

thought Lars Peter; "it gives a man a better standing. And we can

make a little money by him too." This was only said by way of

comfort. Deep down in his heart, he was very anxious about the nag.

But no-one could face the thought of being parted from it.

The cow, on the other hand, there was quite a battle about. Lars

Peter wished to take it too. "It's served us faithfully all this

while," said he, "and given the little ones their food and health.

And it's good to have plenty of milk in the house." But here Ditte

was sensible. If they took the cow, they would have to take a field

as well.

Lars Peter laughed: Ay, that was not a bad idea, if only they could

take a lump of meadow on the cart--and piece of the marsh. Down

there, there was nothing but sand. Well, he would give up the cow.

"But the pig we'll keep--and the hens!"

Ditte agreed that hens were useful to keep, and the pig could live

on anything.

The day before the auction they were busily engaged in putting all

in order and writing numbers on the things in chalk. The little ones

helped too, and were full of excitement.

"But they're not all matched," said Ditte, pointing at the different

lots Lars Peter had put up together.

"That doesn't matter," answered Lars Peter--"folks see there's a

boot in one lot, bid it up and then buy the whole lot. Well, then

they see the other boot in another lot--and bid that up as well.

It's always like that at auctions; folks get far more than they have

use for--and most of it doesn't match."

Ditte laughed: "Ay, you ought to know all about it!" Her father

himself had the bad habit of going to auctions and bringing home a

great deal of useless rubbish. It could be bought on credit, which

was a temptation.

How things collected as years went by, in attics and outhouses! It

was a relief to get it all cleared away. But it was difficult to

keep it together. The children had a use for it all--as soon as they

saw their opportunity, they would run off with something or

other--just like rats.

* * * * *

The day of the auction arrived--a mild, gray, damp October day. The

soft air hung like a veil over everything. The landscape, with its

scattered houses and trees, lay resting in the all-embracing wet.

At the Crow's Nest they had been early astir. Ditte and Lars Peter

had been running busily about from the house to the barn and back

again. Now they had finished, and everything was in readiness. The

children were washed and dressed, and went round full of

expectation, with well-combed heads and faces red from scrubbing and

soap. Ditte did not do things by halves, and when she washed their

ears, and made their eyes smart with the soap, weeping was

unavoidable. But now the disagreeable task was over, and there would

be no more of it for another week; childish tears dry quickly, and

their little faces beamingly met the day.

Little Povl was last ready. Ditte could hardly keep him on the

chair, as she put the finishing touches--he was anxious to be out.

"Well, what d'you say to sister?" she asked, when he was done,

offering her mouth.

"Hobble!" said he, looking roguishly at her; he was in high spirits.

Kristian and Else laughed.

"No, now answer properly," said Ditte seriously; she did not allow

fun when correcting them. "Say, 'thank you, dear'--well?"

"Thank you, dear lump!" said the youth, laughing immoderately.

"Oh, you're mad today," said Ditte, lifting him down. He ran out

into the yard to the father, and continued his nonsense.

"What's that he says?" shouted Lars Peter from outside.

"Oh, it's only something he's made up himself--he often does that.

He seems to think it's something naughty."

"You, lumpy, lump!" said the child, taking hold of his father's leg.

"Mind what you're doing, you little monkey, or I'll come after you!"

said Lars Peter with a terrible roar.

The boy laughed and hid behind the well.

Lars Peter caught him and put him on one shoulder, and his sister on

the other. "We'll go in the fields," said he.

Ditte and Kristian went with him, it would be their last walk there;

involuntarily they each took hold of his coat. Thus they went down

the pathway to the clay-pit, past the marsh and up on the other

side. It was strange how different everything looked now they were

going to lose it. The marsh and the clay-pit could have told their

own tale about the children's play and Lars Peter's plans. The

brambles in the hedges, the large stone which marked the boundary,

the stone behind which they used to hide--all spoke to them in their

own way today. The winter seed was in the earth, and everything

ready for the new occupier, whoever he might be. Lars Peter did not

wish his successor to have anything to complain of. No-one should

say that he had neglected his land, because he was not going to reap

the harvest.

"Ay, our time's up here," said he, when they were back in the house

again. "Lord knows what the new place'll be like!" There was a catch

in his voice as he spoke.

A small crowd began to collect on the highroad. They stood in groups

and did not go down to the Crow's Nest, until the auctioneer and his

clerk arrived. Ditte was on the point of screaming when she saw who

the two men were; they were the same who had come to fetch her

mother. But now they came on quite a different errand, and spoke

kindly.

Behind their conveyance came group after group of people, quite a

procession. It looked as if no-one wanted to be the first to put

foot on the rag and bone man's ground. Where the officials went,

they too could follow, but the auctioneer and his clerk were the

only ones to shake hands with Lars Peter; the others hung aimlessly

about, and put their heads together, keeping up a whispering

conversation.

Lars Peter summed up the buyers. There were one or two farmers among

them, mean old men, who had come in the hope of getting a bargain.

Otherwise they were nearly all poor people from round about,

cottagers and laborers who were tempted by the chance of buying on

credit. They took no notice of him, but rubbed up against the

farmers--and made up to the clerk; they did not dare to approach the

auctioneer.

"Ay, they behave as if I were dirt," thought Lars Peter. And what

were they after all? Most of them did not even own enough ground to

grow a carrot in. A good thing he owed them nothing! Even the

cottagers from the marsh, whom he had often helped in their poverty,

followed the others' example and looked down on him today. There was

no chance now of getting anything more out of him.

After all, it was comical to go round watching people fight over

one's goods and chattels. They were not too grand to take the rag

and bone man's leavings--if only they could get it on credit and

make a good bargain.

The auctioneer knew most of them by name, and encouraged them to

bid. "Now, Peter Jensen Hegnet, make a good bid. You haven't bought

anything from me for a whole year!" said he suddenly to one of the

cottagers. Or, "Here's something to take home to your wife, Jens

Petersen!" Each time he named them, the man he singled out would

laugh self-consciously and make a bid. They felt proud at being

known by the auctioneer.

"Here's a comb, make a bid for it!" shouted the auctioneer, when the

farm implements came to be sold. A wave of laughter went through the

crowd; it was an old harrow which was put up. The winnowing-machine

he called a coffee-grinder. He had something funny to say about

everything. At times the jokes were such that the laughter turned on

Lars Peter, and this was quickly followed up. But Lars Peter shook

himself, and took it as it came. It was the auctioneer's profession

to say funny things--it all helped on the sale!

The poor silly day laborer, Johansen, was there too. He stood behind

the others, stretching his neck to see what was going on--in ragged

working clothes and muddy wooden shoes. Each time the auctioneer

made a remark, he laughed louder than the rest, to show that he

joined in the joke. Lars Peter looked at him angrily. In his house

there was seldom food, except what others were foolish enough to

give him--his earnings went in drink. And there he stood, stuck-up

idiot that he was! And bless us, if he didn't make a bid too--for

Lars Peter's old boots. No-one bid against him, so they were knocked

down to him for a crown. "You'll pay at once, of course," said the

auctioneer. This time the laugh was against the buyer; all knew he

had no money.

"I'll pay it for him," said Lars Peter, putting the crown on the

table. Johansen glared at him for a few minutes; then sat down and

began putting on the boots. He had not had leather footwear for

years and years.

Indoors, a table was set out with two large dishes of sandwiches and

a bottle of brandy, with three glasses round. At one end of the

table was a coffee-pot. Ditte kept in the kitchen; her cheeks were

red with excitement in case her preparations should not be

appreciated. She had everything ready to cut more sandwiches as soon

as the others gave out; every other minute she peeped through the

door to see what was going on, her heart in her mouth. Every now and

then a stranger strolled into the room, looking round with

curiosity, but passed out without eating anything. A man entered--he

was not from the neighborhood, and Ditte did not know him. He

stepped over the bench, took a sandwich, and poured himself out a

glass of brandy. Ditte could see by his jaws that he was enjoying

himself. Then in came a farmer's wife, drew him away by his arm,

whispering something to him. He got up, spat the food out into his

hand, and followed her out of doors.

When Lars Peter came into the kitchen, Ditte lay over the table,

crying. He lifted her up. "What's the matter now?" he asked.

"Oh, it's nothing," sniffed Ditte, struggling to get away. Perhaps

she wanted to spare him, or perhaps to hide her shame even from him.

Only after much persuasion did he get out of her that it was the

food. "They won't touch it!" she sobbed.

He had noticed it himself.

"Maybe they're not hungry yet," said he, to comfort her. "And they

haven't time either."

"They think it's bad!" she broke out, "made from dog's meat or

something like that."

"Don't talk nonsense!" Lars Peter laughed strangely. "It's not

dinner-time either."

"I heard a woman telling her husband myself--not to touch it," she

said.

Lars Peter was silent for a few minutes. "Now, don't worry over it,"

said he, stroking her hair. "Tomorrow we're leaving, and then we

shan't care a fig for them. There's a new life ahead of us. Well, I

must go back to the auction; now, be a sensible girl."

Lars Peter went over to the barn, where the auction was now being

held. At twelve o'clock the auctioneer stopped. "Now we'll have a

rest, good people, and get something inside us!" he cried. The

people laughed. Lars Peter went up to the auctioneer. Every one knew

what he wanted; they pushed nearer to see the rag and bone man

humiliated. He lifted his dented old hat, and rubbed his tousled

head. "I only wanted to say"--his big voice rang to the furthermost

corners--"that if the auctioneer and his clerk would take us as we

are, there's food and beer indoors--you are welcome to a cup of

coffee too." People nudged one another--who ever heard such

impudence--the rag and bone man to invite an auctioneer to his

table, and his wife a murderess into the bargain! They looked on

breathlessly; one farmer was even bold enough to warn him with a

wink.

The auctioneer thanked him hesitatingly. "We've brought something

with us, you and your clever little girl have quite enough to do,"

said he in a friendly manner. Then, noticing Lars Peter's

crestfallen appearance, and the triumphant faces of those around, he

understood that something was going on in which he was expected to

take part. He had been here before--on an unpleasant errand--and

would gladly make matters easier for these honest folk who bore

their misfortune so patiently.

"Yes, thanks very much," said he jovially, "strangers' food always

tastes much nicer than one's own! And a glass of brandy--what do you

say, Hansen?" They followed Lars Peter into the house, and sat down

to table.

The people looked after them a little taken aback, then slunk in one

by one. It would be fun to see how such a great man enjoyed the rag

and bone man's food. And once inside, for very shame's sake they had

to sit down at the table. Appetite is infectious, and the two of

them set to with a will. Perhaps people did not seriously believe

all the tales which they themselves had both listened to and spread.

Ditte's sandwiches and coffee quickly disappeared, and she was sent

for by the auctioneer, who praised her and patted her cheeks. This

friendly act took away much of her bitterness of mind, and was a

gratifying reward for all her trouble.

"I've never had a better cup of coffee at any sale," said the

auctioneer.

When they began again, a stranger had appeared. He nodded to the

auctioneer, but ignored everybody else, and went round looking at

the buildings and land. He was dressed like a steward, with

high-laced boots. But any one could see with half an eye that he was

no countryman. It leaked out by degrees that he was a tradesman from

the town, who wished to buy the Crow's Nest--probably for the

fishing on the lake--and use it as a summer residence.

Otherwise, there was little chance of many bids for the place, but

his advent changed the outlook. It really could be made into a good

little property, once all was put in order. When the Crow's Nest

eventually was put up for sale, there was some competition, and Lars

Peter got a good price for the place.

At last the auction was over, but the people waited about, as if

expecting something to happen. A stout farmer's wife went up to Lars

Peter and shook his hand. "I should like to say good-by to you,"

said she, "and wish you better luck in your new home than you've had

here. You've not had much of a time, have you?"

"No, and the little good we've had's no thanks to any one here,"

said Lars Peter.

"Folks haven't treated you as they ought to have done, and I've been

no better than the rest, but 'tis our way. We farmers can't bear the

poor. Don't think too badly of us. Good luck to you!" She said

good-by to all the children with the same wish. Many of the people

made off, but one or two followed her example, and shook hands with

them.

Lars Peter stood looking after them, the children by his side.

"After all, folk are often better than a man gives them credit for,"

said he. He was not a little moved.

They loaded the cart with their possessions, so as to make an early

start the next morning. It was some distance to the fishing-hamlet,

and it was better to get off in good time, to settle down a little

before night. Then they went to bed; they were tired out after their

long eventful day; they slept on the hay in the barn, as the

bedclothes were packed.

The next morning was a wonderful day to waken up to. They were

dressed when they wakened, and had only to dip their faces in the

water-trough in the yard. Already they felt a sensation of something

new and pleasant. There was only the coffee to be drunk, and the cow

to be taken to the neighbor's, and they were ready to get into the

cart. Klavs was in the shafts, and on top of the high load they put

the pig, the hens and the three little ones. It was a wonderful

beginning to the new life.

Lars Peter was the only one who felt sad. He made an excuse to go

over the property again, and stood behind the barn, gazing over the

fields. Here he had toiled and striven through good and bad; every

ditch was dear to him--he knew every stone in the fields, every

crack in the walls. What would the future bring? Lars Peter had

begun afresh before, but never with less inclination than now. His

thoughts turned to bygone days.

The children, on the contrary, thought only of the future. Ditte had

to tell them about the beach, as she remembered it from her

childhood with Granny, and they promised themselves delightful times

in their new home.

CHAPTER IX

A DEATH

The winter was cold and long. Lars Peter had counted on getting a

share in a boat, but there seemed to be no vacancy, and each time he

reminded the inn-keeper of his promise, he was put off with talk.

"It'll come soon enough," said the inn-keeper, "just give it time."

Time--it was easy to say. But here he was waiting, with his savings

dwindling away--and what was he really waiting for? That there might

be an accident, so he could fill the place--it was not a pleasant

thought. It had been arranged that the inn-keeper should help Lars

Peter to get a big boat, and let him manage it; at least, so Lars

Peter had understood before he moved down to the hamlet. But it had

evidently been a great misunderstanding.

He went about lending a hand here and there, and replacing any one

who was ill. "Just wait a little longer," said the inn-keeper.

"It'll be all right in the end! You can get what you want at the

store." It was as if he were keeping Lars Peter back for some

purpose of his own.

At last the spring came, heralded by furious storms and accidents

round about the coast. One morning Lars Jensen's boat came in,

having lost its master; a wave had swept him overboard.

"You'd better go to the inn-keeper at once," said his two partners

to Lars Peter.

"But wouldn't it be more natural to go to Lars Jensen's widow?"

asked Lars Peter. "After all, 'tis she who owns the share now."

"We don't want to be mixed up in it," said they cautiously. "Go to

whoever you like. But if you've money in the house, you should put

it into the bank--the hut might easily catch fire." They looked

meaningly at each other and turned away.

Lars Peter turned this over in his mind--could that be the case? He

took the two thousand crowns he had put by from the sale to build

with, and went up to the inn-keeper.

"Will you take care of some money for me?" he said in a low voice.

"You're the savings bank for us down here, I've been told."

The inn-keeper counted the money, and locked it up in his desk. "You

want a receipt, I suppose?" said he.

"No-o, it doesn't really matter," Lars Peter said slowly. He would

have liked a written acknowledgment, but did not like to insist on

it. It looked as if he mistrusted the man.

The inn-keeper drew down the front of the desk--it sounded to Lars

Peter like earth being thrown on a coffin. "We can call it a deposit

on the share in the boat," said he. "I've been thinking you might

take Lars Jensen's share."

"Oughtn't I to have arranged it with Lars Jensen's widow, and not

with you?" said Lars Peter. "She owns the share."

The inn-keeper turned towards him. "You seem to know more about

other people's affairs in the hamlet than I do, it appears to me,"

said he.

"No, but that's how I understood it to be," mumbled Lars Peter.

Once outside, he shrugged his shoulders. Curse it, a fellow was

never himself when with that hunch-backed dwarf. That he had no

neck--and that huge head! He was supposed to be as strong as a lion,

and there was brain too. He made folk dance to his piping, and got

his own way. There was no getting the better of _him_. Just as he

thought of something cutting which would settle him, the

inn-keeper's face would send his thoughts all ways at once. He was

not satisfied with the result of his visit, but was glad to get out

again.

He went down to the beach, and informed the two partners of what he

had done. They had no objection; they liked the idea of getting Lars

Peter as a third man: he was big and strong, and a good fellow.

"Now, you'll have to settle with the widow," said they.

"What, that too?" broke out Lars Peter. "Good Lord! has the share to

be paid for twice?"

"You must see about that yourself," they said; "we don't want to be

mixed up in it!"

He went to see the widow, who lived in a little hut in the southern

part of the hamlet. She sat beside the fireplace eating peas from a

yellow bowl; the tears ran down her cheeks, dropping into the food.

"There's no-one to earn money for me now," she sobbed.

"Ay, and I'm afraid I've put my foot in it," said Lars Peter,

crestfallen. "I've paid the inn-keeper two thousand crowns for the

share of the boat, and now I hear that it's yours."

"You couldn't help yourself," said she, and looked kindly at him.

"Wasn't it yours then?"

"My husband took it over from the inn-keeper about a dozen years

ago, and paid for it over and over again, he said. But it's hard for

a poor widow to say anything, and have to take charity from others.

It's hard to live, Lars Peter! Who'll shelter me now? and scold me

and make it up again?" She began to cry afresh.

"We'll look you up as often as we can, and as to food, we'll get

over that too. I shouldn't like to be unfair to any one, and least

of all to one who's lost her bread-winner. Poor folks must keep

together."

"I know you won't let me want as long as you have anything yourself.

But you've got your own family to provide for, and food doesn't

grow on the downs here. If only it doesn't happen here as it

generally does--that there's the will but not the means."

"Ay, ay--one beggar must help the other. You shan't be forgotten, if

all goes well. But you must spit three times after me when I've

gone."

"Ay, that I will," said the widow, "and I wish you luck."

* * * * *

Here was an opportunity for him to work. A little luck with the

catch, and all would be well. He was glad Lars Jensen's widow wished

him no ill in his new undertaking. The curse of widows and the

fatherless was a heavy burden on a man's work.

Now that Lars Peter was in the hamlet, he found it not quite what he

had imagined it to be; he could easily think of many a better place

to settle down in. The whole place was poverty-stricken, and no-one

seemed to have any ambition. The fishermen went to sea because they

were obliged to. They seized on any excuse to stay at home. "We're

just as poor whether we work hard or not," said they.

"Why, what becomes of it all?" asked Lars Peter at first, laughing

incredulously.

"You'll soon see yourself!" they answered, and after a while he

began to understand.

That they went to work unwillingly was not much to be wondered at.

The inn-keeper managed everything. He arranged it all as he liked.

He paid for all repairs when necessary, and provided all new

implements. He took care that no-one was hungry or cold, and set up

a store which supplied all that was needed--on credit. It was all

entered in the books, no doubt, but none of them ever knew how much

he owed. But they did not care, and went on buying until he stopped

their credit for a time. On the other hand, if anything were really

wrong in one of the huts, he would step in and help.

That was why they put up with the existing condition of things, and

even seemed to be content--they had no responsibilities. When they

came ashore with their catch, the inn-keeper took it over, and gave

them what he thought fit--just enough for a little pocket-money. The

rest went to pay off their debts--he said. He never sent in any

bills. "We'd better not go into that," he would say with a smile,

"do what you can." One and all of them probably owed him money; it

would need a big purse to hold it all.

They did not have much to spend. But then, on the other hand, they

had no expenses. If their implements broke or were lost at sea, the

inn-keeper provided new ones, and necessaries had only to be fetched

from the store. It was an extraordinary existence, thought Lars

Peter; and yet it appealed to one somehow. It was hard to provide

what was needed when a man was on his own, and tempting to become a

pensioner as it were, letting others take the whole responsibility.

But it left no room for ambition. It was difficult for him to get

his partners to do more than was strictly necessary; what good was

it exerting themselves? They went about half asleep, and with no

spirit in their work. Those who did not spend their time at the inn

drinking and playing cards had other vices; there was no home life

anywhere.

Lars Peter had looked forward to mixing with his fellow-men,

discussing the events of the day, and learning something new. Many

of the fishermen had been abroad in their young days, on merchant

vessels or in the navy, and there were events happening in other

countries which affected both him and them. But all their talk was

of their neighbors' affairs--the inn-keeper always included. He was

like a stone wall surrounding them all. The roof of his house--a

solid building down by the coast, consisting of inn, farm and

store--could be seen from afar, and every one involuntarily glanced

at it before anything was said or done. With him, all discussions

ended.

No-one had much good to say for him. All their earnings went to him

in one way or other--some spent theirs at the inn, others preferred

to take it out in food--and all cursed him in secret.

Well, that was their business. In the end, people are treated

according to their wisdom or stupidity. Lars Peter did not feel

inclined to sink to the level of the others and be treated like a

dumb animal. His business was to see that the children lacked for

nothing and led a decent life.

CHAPTER X

THE NEW WORLD

Ditte stood in the kitchen, cutting thick slices of bread and

dripping for the three hungry little ones, who hung in the doorway

following her movements eagerly with their eyes. She scolded them:

it was only an hour since dinner, and now they behaved as if they

had not tasted food for a week. "Me first, me first!" they shouted,

stretching out their hands. It stopped her washing up, and might

waken her father, who was having a nap up in the attic--it was

ridiculous. But it was the sea that gave them such enormous

appetites.

The more she hushed them, the more noise they made, kicking against

the door with their bare feet. They could not wait; as soon as one

got a slice of bread, he made off to the beach to play. They were

full of spirits--almost too much so indeed. "You mind the king of

the cannibal islands doesn't catch sight of you," she shouted after

them, putting her head out of the door, but they neither heard nor

saw.

She went outside, and stood gazing after them, as they tore along,

kicking up the sand. Oh dear, Povl had dropped his bread and

dripping in the sand--but he picked it up again and ran on, eating

as he went. "It'll clean him inside," said Ditte, laughing to

herself. They were mad, simply mad--digging in the sand and racing

about! They had never been like this before.

She was glad of the change herself. Even if there had been any

opportunity, she could not play; all desires had died long ago. But

there was much of interest. All these crooked, broken-down

moss-grown huts, clustered together on the downs under the high

cliffs, each surrounded by its dust-heap and fish-refuse and

implements, were to Ditte like so many different worlds; she would

have liked to investigate them all.

It was her nature to take an interest in most things, though, unlike

Kristian, she didn't care to roam about. He was never still for a

moment; he had barely found out what was behind one hill, before he

went on to the next. He always wanted to see beyond the horizon, and

his father always said, he might travel round the whole world that

way, for the horizon was always changing. Lars Peter often teased

him about this; it became quite a fairy tale to the restless

Kristian, who wanted to go over the top of every new hill he saw,

until at last he fell down in the hamlet again--right down into

Ditte's stew-pan. He had often been punished for his roaming--but to

no good. Povl wanted to pick everything to pieces, to see what was

inside, or was busy with hammer and nails. He was already nearly as

clever with his hands as Kristian. Most of what he made went to

pieces, but if a handle came off a brush, he would quickly mend it

again. "He only pulls things to pieces so as to have something to

mend again," said his father. Sister stood looking on with her big

eyes.

Ditte was always doing something useful, otherwise she was not

happy. With Granny's death, all her interest in the far-off had

vanished; that there was something good in store for her she never

doubted, it acted as a star and took away the bitterness of her

gloomy childhood. She was not conscious of what it would be, but it

was always there like a gleam of light. The good in store for her

would surely find her. She stayed at home; the outside world had no

attractions for her.

Her childhood had fallen in places where neighbors were few and far

between. The more enjoyment it was to her now to have the society of

others.

Ditte took a keen interest in her fellow-beings, and had not been

many days in the hamlet before she knew all about most people's

affairs--how married people lived together, and who were

sweethearts. She could grasp the situation at a glance--and see all

that lay behind it; she was quick to put two and two together. Her

dull and toilsome life had developed that sense, as a reward for all

she had gone through. There was some spite in it too--a feeling of

vengeance against all who looked down on the rag and bone man,

although they themselves had little to boast about.

The long, hunch-backed hut, one end of which the inn-keeper had let

off to them, lay almost in the midst of the hamlet, just above the

little bay. Two other families beside lived in the little hut, so

they only had two small rooms and a kitchen to call their own, and

Lars Peter had to sleep in the attic. It was only a hovel, "the

workhouse" it was generally called, but it was the only place to be

had, and they had to make the best of it, until Lars Peter could

build something himself--and they might thank the inn-keeper that

they had a roof above their heads. Ditte was not satisfied with the

hut--the floors were rotten, and would not dry when she had washed

them. It was no better than the Crow's Nest--and there was much less

room. She looked forward to the new house that was to be built. It

should be a real house, with a red roof glistening in the sun, and

an iron sink that would not rot away.

But in spite of this she was quite happy. When she stood washing up

inside the kitchen door, she could see the downs, and eagerly her

eyes followed all who went to and fro. Her little brain wondered

where they were going, and on what errand. And if she heard voices

through the wall, or from the other end of the hut, she would stop

in her work and listen breathlessly. It was all so exciting; the

other families in the hut were always bustling and moving about--the

old grandmother, who lay lame in bed on the other side of the wall,

cursing existence, while the twins screamed at the top of their

voices, and the Lord only knew where the daughter-in-law was, and

Jacob the fisherman and his daughter in the other end of the hut.

Suddenly, as one stood thinking of nothing at all, the inn-keeper

would come strolling over the downs, looking like a goblin, to visit

the young wife next door; then the old grandmother thumped on the

floor with her crutch, cursing everything and everybody.

There was much gossip in the hamlet--of sorrow and shame and crime;

Ditte could follow the stories herself, often to the very end. She

was quick to find the thread, even in the most difficult cases.

Her life was much happier now: there was little to do in the house,

and no animals to look after, so she had more time of her own. Her

schooldays were over, and she was soon to be confirmed. Even the

nag, whom at first she had been able to keep her eye on from the

kitchen window, needed no looking after now. The inn-keeper had

forbidden them to let it feed on the downs, and had taken it on to

his own farm. There it had been during the winter, and they only saw

it when it was carting sea-weed or bringing a load of fish from the

beach for the inn-keeper. It was not well-treated in its present

home, and had all the hard tasks given it, so as to spare the

inn-keeper's own animals. Tears came into Ditte's eyes when she

thought of it. It became like a beast of burden in the fairy tale,

and no-one there to defend it. It was long since it had pulled

crusts of bread from her mouth with its soft muzzle.

Ditte lost her habit of stooping, and began to fill out as she grew

up. She enjoyed the better life and the children's happiness--the

one with the other added to her well-being. Her hair had grown, and

allowed itself the luxury of curling over her forehead, and her chin

was soft and round. No-one could say she was pretty, but her eyes

were beautiful--always on the alert, watching for something useful

to do. Her hands were red and rough--she had not yet learned how to

take care of them.

Ditte had finished in the kitchen, and went into the living room.

She sat down on the bench under the window, and began patching the

children's clothes; at the same time she could see what was

happening on the beach and on the downs.

Down on the shore the children were digging with all their might,

building sand-gardens and forts. To the right was a small hut, neat

and well cared for, outside which Rasmus Olsen, the fisherman, stood

shouting in through the window. His wife had turned him out--it

always sounded so funny when he had words with his wife, he mumbled

on loudly and monotonously as a preacher--it made one feel quite

sleepy. There was not a scrap of bad temper in him. Most likely his

wife would come out soon, and she would give it him in another

fashion.

They were always quarreling, those two--and always about the

daughter. Both spoiled her, and each tried to get her over to their

side--and came to blows over it. And Martha, the wretch, sided first

with one and then with the other--whichever paid her best. She was

a pretty girl, slim but strong enough to push a barrow full of fish

or gear through the loose sand on the downs, but she was wild--and

had plenty to say for herself. When she had had a sweetheart for a

short time, she always ended by quarreling with him.

The two old people were deaf, and always came outside to quarrel--as

if they needed air. They themselves thought they spoke in a low

voice, all the time shouting so loudly that the whole hamlet knew

what the trouble was about.

Ditte could see the sea from the window--it glittered beneath the

blazing sun, pale blue and wonderful. It was just like a big being,

softly caressing--and then suddenly it would flare up! The boats

were on the beach, looking like cattle in their stalls, side by

side. On the bench, two old fishermen sat smoking.

Now all the children from the hamlet came rushing up from the beach,

like a swarm of frightened bees. They must have caught sight of the

inn-keeper! He did not approve of children playing; they ought to be

doing something useful. They fled as soon as he appeared, imagining

that he had the evil eye. The swarm spread over the downs in all

directions, and suddenly vanished, as if the earth had swallowed

them.

Then he came tramping in his heavy leather boots. His long arms

reached to his knees. When he went through the loose sand, his great

bony hands on his thighs, he looked as if he were walking on all

fours. His misshapen body was like a pair of bellows, his head

resting between his broad shoulders, moved up and down like a buoy;

every breath sounded like a steam-whistle, and could be heard from

afar. Heavens, how ugly he looked! He was like a crouching goblin,

who could make himself as big as he pleased, and see over all the

huts in his search for food. The hard shut mouth was so big that it

could easily swallow a child's head--and his eyes! Ditte shut her

own, and shivered.

She quickly opened them, however; she must find out what his

business was, taking care not to be seen herself.

The ogre, as the children called him, mainly because of his big

mouth, came to a standstill at Rasmus Olsen's house. "Well, are you

two quarreling again?" he shouted jovially. "What's wrong

now--Martha, I suppose?"

Rasmus Olsen was silent, and shuffled off towards the beach. But his

wife was not afraid, and turned her wrath on to the inn-keeper.

"What's it to do with you?" she cried. "Mind your own business!" The

inn-keeper passed on without taking any notice of her, and entered

the house. Most likely he wanted to see Martha; she followed on his

heels. "You can save yourself the trouble, there's nothing for you

to pry into!" she screamed. Shortly afterwards he came out again,

with the woman still scolding at his heels, and went across the

downs.

The fisherman's wife stood looking round, then catching sight of

Ditte, she came over. She had not finished yet, and needed some

object to go on with. "Here he goes round prying, the beastly

hunch-back!" she screamed, still beside herself with rage, "walking

straight into other people's rooms as if they were his own. And that

doddering old idiot daren't throw him out, but slinks off. Ay,

they're fine men here on the downs; a woman has to manage it all,

the food and the shame and everything! If only the boy had lived."

And throwing her apron over her head, she began to cry.

"Was he drowned?" asked Ditte sympathetically.

"I think of it all day long; I shall never forget him; there'll be

no happiness in life for me. Maybe it's stupid to cry, but I can't

help it--it's the mean way he met his death. If he had been struck

down by illness, and the Lord had had a finger in it--'twould be

quite another thing! But that he was strong and well--'twas his

uncle wanted him to go out shooting wild duck. I tried to stop him,

but the boy _would_ go, and there was no peace until he did. 'But,

Mother,' he said, 'you know I can handle a gun; why, I shoot every

day.' Then they went out in the boat with two guns, and not ten

minutes afterwards he was back again, lying dead in a pool of blood.

That's why I can't bear to see wild ducks, or taste 'em either.

Whenever I sit by the window, I can see them bringing him in--there

they are again. That's why my eyes are dimmed, I'm always crying:

'tis all over with me now."

The woman was overcome by grief. Her hands trembled, and moved

aimlessly over the table and back again.

Ditte looked at her from a new point of view. "Hush, hush, don't cry

any more," said she, putting her arms round her and joining in her

tears. "Wait--I'll make a cup of coffee." And gradually she

succeeded in comforting her.

"You've good hands," said the old woman, taking Ditte's hand

gratefully. "They're rough and red because your heart's in the right

place."

As they were having their coffee, Lars Peter returned. He had been

to see the inn-keeper, to hear how the nag was being treated, and

was out of humor. Ditte asked what was troubling him.

"Oh, it's the nag--they'll finish it soon," said he miserably.

The fisherman's wife looked at him kindly. "At least I can hear your

voice, even though you're talking to some one else," said she. "Ay,

he's taken your horse--and cart too! He can find a use for

everything, honor and money--and food too! D'you go to the

tap-room?"

"No, I haven't been there yet," said Lars Peter, "and I don't think

to go there every day."

"No, that's just it: you're not a drinker, and such are treated

worse than the others. He likes folks to spend their money in the

tap-room more than in the store--that's his way. He wants your

money, and there's no getting out of it."

"How did he come to lord it over the place? It hasn't always been

like this," said Lars Peter.

"How--because the folk here are no good--at all events here in the

hamlet. If we've no-one to rule us, then we run about whining like

dogs without a master until we find some one to kick us. We lick his

boots and choose him for our master, and then we're satisfied. In my

childhood it was quite different here, everybody owned their own

hut. But then he came and got hold of everything. There was an inn

here of course, and when he found he couldn't get everything his own

way, he started all these new ideas with costly fishing-nets and

better ways and gear, and God knows what. He gave them new-fangled

things--and grabbed the catch. The fishermen get much more now, but

what's the good, when he takes it all! I'd like to know what made

you settle down here?"

"Round about it was said that he was so good to you fisher-people,

and as far as I could see there was no mistake about it either. But

it looks rather different now a man's got into the thing."

"Heavens! _good_, you say! He helps and helps, until a man hasn't a

shirt left to his back. Just you wait; you'll be drawn in too--and

the girl as well if she's pretty enough for him. At present he's

only taking what you've got. Afterwards he'll help you till you're

so deep in debt that you'd like to hang yourself. Then he'll talk to

you about God and Holy Scripture. For he can preach too--like the

devil!"

Lars Peter stared hopelessly. "I've heard that he and his wife hold

some kind of meetings, but we've never been; we don't care much for

that sort of thing. Not that we're unbelievers, but so far we've

found it best to mind our own affairs, and leave the Lord to look

after His."

"We don't go either, but then Rasmus drinks--ay, ay, you'll go

through it all yourself. And here am I sitting gossiping instead of

getting home." She went home to get supper ready for the doddering

idiot.

They sat silent for a few minutes. Then Ditte said: "If only we'd

gone to some other place!"

"Oh, things are never as black as they're painted! And I don't feel

inclined to leave my money and everything behind me," answered Lars

Peter.

CHAPTER XI

GINGERBREAD HOUSE

Now that the children were surrounded by people, they felt as if

they lived in an ant-hill. The day was full of happenings, all

equally exciting--and the most exciting of it all was their fear of

the "ogre." Suddenly, when they were playing hide-and-seek amongst

the boats, or sat riding on the roof of the engine-house, he would

appear, his long arms grasping the air, and if he caught hold of one

of them, they would get something else to add to their fear. His

breath smelt of raw meat, the children declared; they did not make

him out better than he was. To run away from him, with their hearts

thumping, gave zest to their existence.

And when they lay in bed at night listening, they heard sounds in

the house, which did not come from any of their people. Then came

steps in stocking-feet up in the attic, and they would look towards

Ditte. Kristian knew what it meant, and they buried their heads

underneath the bedclothes, whispering. It was Jacob, the fisherman,

creeping about upstairs, listening to what they said. He always

stole about, trying to find out from the talk a certain _word_ he

could use to drive the devil out of the inn-keeper. The children

worried over the question, because he had promised them sixpence if

they could discover the word. And from the other side of the wall,

they could hear the old grandmother's cough. She had dropsy, which

made her fatter and fatter outside, but was hollow within. She

coughed up her inside.

The son was on a long voyage, and seldom came home; but each time he

returned, he found one of the children dead and his wife with a new

baby to make up for it. She neglected her children, and in

consequence they died. "Light come, light go!" said folk, and

laughed. Now only the twins remained: there they lay in the big

wooden cradle, screaming day and night, with a crust of bread as a

comforter. The mother was never at home. Ditte looked after them, or

they would have perished.

A short distance away on the downs, was a little house, quite

different from the others. It was the most beautiful house the

little ones had ever seen: the door and the window-panes were

painted blue; the beams were not tarred as in the other huts, but

painted brown; the bricks were red with a blue stripe. The ground

round the house was neat: the sand was raked, and by the well it was

dry and clean. A big elder--the only tree in the whole hamlet--grew

beside the well. On the window-sill were plants, with red and blue

flowers, and behind them sat an old woman peeping out. She wore a

white cap, and the old man had snow-white hair. When the weather was

fine he was always pottering round the house. And occasionally the

old woman appeared at the door, admiring his handiwork. "How nice

you've made everything look, little father!" said she. "Ay, it's all

for you, little mother," he answered, and they laughed at each

other. Then he took hold of her hand, and they tripped towards the

elder tree and sat down in the shade; they were like a couple of

children, but she soon wanted to go back to her window, and it was

said that she had not gone beyond the well for many a year.

The old people kept to themselves, and did not mix with the other

inhabitants of the hamlet, but when Lars Peter's children passed,

the old woman always looked out and nodded and smiled. They made

some excuse to pass the house several times a day: there was

something in the pretty little place and the two old people which

attracted them. The same cleanness and order that ruled their house

was apparent in their lives; no-one in the hamlet had anything but

good to say of them.

Amongst themselves, the children called it Gingerbread House, and

imagined wonderful things inside it. One day, hand in hand, the

three went up and knocked on the door. The old man opened it. "What

do you want, children?" he asked kindly, but blocking the door. Yes,

what did they want--none of them knew. And there they stood

open-mouthed.

"Let them come inside, father," a voice said. "Come in then,

children." They entered a room that smelt of flowers and apples.

Everything was painted: ceiling, beams and walls; it all shone; the

floor was painted white, and the table was so brightly polished that

the window was reflected in it. In a softly cushioned armchair a cat

lay sleeping.

The children were seated underneath the window, each with a plate of

jelly. A waterproof cloth was put on the table, in case they spilled

anything. The old couple trotted round them anxiously; their eyes

gleamed with pleasure at the unexpected visit, but they were uneasy

about their furniture. They were not accustomed to children, and

Povl nearly frightened their lives out of them, the way he behaved.

He lifted his plate with his little hands, nearly upsetting its

contents, and said: "Potatoes too!" He thought it was jam. But

sister helped him to finish, and then it was happily over. Kristian

had gulped his share in a couple of spoonfuls, and stood by the

door, ready to run off to the beach--already longing for something

new. They were each given a red apple, and shown politely to the

door; the old couple were tired. Povl put his cheek on the old

woman's skirt. "Me likes you!" said he.

"God bless you, little one! Did you hear that, father?" she said,

nodding her withered old head.

Kristian thought he too ought to show his appreciation. "If you want

any errands done, only tell me," said he, throwing back his head. "I

can run ever so fast." And to show how clever he was on his legs,

he rushed down the path. A little way down, he turned triumphantly.

"As quick as that," he shouted.

"Yes, thanks, we'll remember," nodded the two old people.

This little visit was the introduction to a pleasant acquaintance.

The old people liked the children, and even fetched them in when

passing, and bore patiently with all their awkwardness. Not that

they were allowed to tumble about--they could do that on the downs.

The old man would tell them a story, or get his flute and play to

them. The children came home with sparkling eyes, and quieter than

usual, to tell Ditte all about it.

The following day, Ditte went about pondering how she could do the

old people a service for their kindness towards the children, and,

as she could think of nothing, she took Kristian into her

confidence. He was so clever in finding ways out of difficulties.

It was the fisher-people's custom to put aside some of the catch

before it was delivered to the inn-keeper, and one day Ditte took a

beautiful thick plaice, and told Kristian to run with it to the old

couple. "But they mustn't know that it is from us," said she.

"They'll be having their after-dinner nap, so you can easily leave

it without their seeing you." Kristian put it down on the little

bench underneath the elder; but when later on he crept past, to see

if it had been taken, only the tail and the fins remained--the cat

had eaten it up. Ditte scolded him well, and Kristian had to puzzle

his brains once more.

"Father might get Klavs, and take them for a drive on Sunday," said

he. "They never get anywhere--their legs are too old."

"You silly!--we've nothing to do with Klavs now," Ditte said

sharply.

But now she knew what to do! She would scrub out the _little house_

for them every night; the old woman had to kneel down to do it every

morning. It was a sin she should have to do it. After the old people

had gone to bed--they went to rest early--Ditte took a pail of water

and a scrubbing brush, and some sand in her pinafore, and crept up.

Kristian stood outside at home, waiting for her. He was not allowed

to go with her, for fear of disturbing the old couple--he was so

noisy.

"What d'you think they'll say when they come down in the morning and

find it all so clean?" cried he, hopping first on one foot and then

the other. He would have liked to stay up all night to see their

surprise.

Next time the children visited the old people, the old man told them

a story about a little fairy who came every night to scour and

scrub, to save his little mother. Then Kristian laughed--he knew

better.

"It was Ditte!" he burst out. He put his hand to his mouth next

moment, but it was too late.

"But Ditte isn't a fairy!" broke out sister Else, offended. They

all three laughed at her until she began to cry, and had to be

comforted with a cake.

On their way home, whom should they meet but Uncle Johannes, who was

looking for their house. He was rigged out very smartly, and looked

like a well-to-do tradesman. Lars Peter was pleased to see him. They

had not met since their unfortunate parting in the Crow's Nest, and

now all was forgotten. He had heard one or two things about

him--Johannes kept the gossips busy. The two brothers shook hands as

if no unpleasantness had come between them. "Sit down and have

something to eat," said Lars Peter. "There's boiled cod today."

"Thanks, but I'm feeding up at the inn later on; we're a few

tradesmen up there together."

"That'll be a grand dinner, I suppose?" Lars Peter's eyes shone; he

had never been to a dinner party himself.

"Ay, that it will--they do things pretty well up there. He's a good

sort, the inn-keeper."

"Some think so; others don't. It all depends how you look at him.

You'd better not tell them you're my brother--it'll do you no good

to have poor relations down here."

Johannes laughed: "I've told the inn-keeper--he spoke well of you.

You were his best fisherman, he said."

"Really, did he say that?" Lars Peter flushed with pride.

"But a bit close, he said. You thought codfish could talk reason."

"Well, now--what the devil did he mean by it? What nonsense! Of

course codfish can't speak!"

"I don't know. But he's a clever man--he might have been one of the

learned sort."

"You're getting on well, I hear," said Lars Peter, to change the

subject. "Is it true you're half engaged to a farmer's daughter?"

Johannes smiled, stroking his woman-like mouth, where a small

mustache was visible. "There's a deal of gossip about," was all he

said.

"If only you keep her--and don't have the same bad luck that I had.

I had a sweetheart who was a farmer's daughter, but she died before

we were married."

"Is that true, Father?" broke out Ditte, proud of her father's

standing.

* * * * *

"What do you think of him, my girl?" asked Lars Peter, when his

brother had gone. "Picked up a bit, hasn't he?"

"Ay, he looks grand," admitted Ditte. "But I don't like him all the

same."

"You're so hard to please." Lars Peter was offended. "Other folks

seem to like him. He'll marry well."

"Ay, that may be. It's because he's got black hair--we women are mad

on that. But I don't think he's good."

CHAPTER XII

DAILY TROUBLES

It was getting on towards Christmas, a couple of months after they

had come to the hamlet, when one day Lars Peter was mad enough to

quarrel with the inn-keeper. He was not even drunk and it was a

thing unheard of in the hamlet for a sober man to give the

inn-keeper a piece of his mind. But he had been more than stupid,

every one agreed, and he himself too.

It was over the nag. Lars Peter could not get used to seeing the

horse work for others, and it cut him to the heart that it should

have to work so hard. It angered him, too, to be idle himself, in

spite of the inn-keeper's promises--and there were many other things

besides. One day he declared that Klavs should come home, and he

would begin to drive round again. He went up to the farm and

demanded his horse.

"Certainly!" The inn-keeper followed him out and ordered the horse

to be harnessed. "Here's your horse, cart and everything belonging

to it--is there anything more of yours?"

Lars Peter was somewhat taken aback. He had expected opposition and

here was the inn-keeper quite friendly, in fact almost fawning on

him. "I wanted to cart some things home," said he, rather

crestfallen.

"Certainly, Lars Peter Hansen," said the inn-keeper, preceding him

into the shop. He weighed out all Lars Peter ordered, reminded him

of one thing after another, laying the articles in a heap on the

counter. "Have you raisins for the Christmas cakes?" he asked.

"Ditte bakes herself." He knew every one's doings and was thoughtful

in helping them.

When Lars Peter was about to carry the things out to the cart, he

said smilingly, "That will be--let me see, how much do you owe for

last time?"

"I'd like to let it wait a bit--till I get settled up after the

auction!"

"Well, I'm afraid it can't. I don't know anything about you yet."

"Oh, so you're paying me out." Lars Peter began to fume.

"Paying you out? Not at all. But I like to know what sort of a man

I'm dealing with before I can trust him."

"Oh, indeed! It's easy enough to see what sort of a fellow you are!"

shouted Lars Peter and rushed out.

The inn-keeper followed him out to the cart. "You'll have a

different opinion of me some day," said he gently, "then we can talk

it over again. Never mind. But another thing--where'll you get food

for the horse?"

"I'll manage somehow," answered Lars Peter shortly.

"And stabling? It's setting in cold now."

"You leave that to me!"

Lars Peter drove off at a walking pace. He knew perfectly well that

he could find neither food nor stabling for the horse without the

inn-keeper's help. Two or three days afterwards he sent Kristian

with the horse and cart back to the farm.

He had done this once, but he was wiser now--or at all events more

careful. When occasionally he felt a longing for the road and wanted

to spend a day on it in company with Klavs, he asked politely for

the loan of it, and he was allowed to have it. Then he and the horse

were like sweethearts who seldom saw each other.

He was no wiser than before. The inn-keeper he couldn't make

out--with his care for others and his desire to rule.

His partners and the other men he didn't understand either. He had

spent his life in the country where people kept to themselves--where

he had often longed for society. It looked cosy--as seen from the

lonely Crow's Nest--people lived next door to each other; they could

give a helping hand occasionally and chat with each other. But what

pleasure had a man here? They toiled unwillingly, pushing

responsibilities and troubles on to others, getting only enough for

a meager meal from day to day and letting another man run off with

their profits. It was extraordinary how that crooked devil scraped

in everything with his long arms, without any one daring to protest.

He must have an enormous hold on them somehow.

Lars Peter did not think of rebelling again. When his anger rose he

had only to think of fisher-Jacob, who was daily before his eyes.

Every one knew how he had become the wreck he was. He had once owned

a big boat, and had hired men to work with him, so he thought it

unnecessary to submit to the inn-keeper. But the inn-keeper licked

him into shape. He refused to buy his fish, so that they had to sail

elsewhere with it, but this outlet he closed for them too. They

could buy no goods nor gear in the village--they were shunned like

lepers, no one dared help them. Then his partners turned against

him, blaming him for their ill-luck. He tried to sell up and moved

to another place, but the inn-keeper would not buy his possessions

and no-one else dared; he had to stay on--and learn to submit.

Although he owned a boat and gear, he had to hire it from the

inn-keeper. It told so heavily on him that he lost his reason; now

he muddled about looking for a magic word to fell the inn-keeper; at

times he went round with a gun, declaring he would shoot him. But

the inn-keeper only laughed.

Ditte talked a great deal with the women. They all agreed that the

inn-keeper had the evil eye. He was always in her mind; she went in

an everlasting dread of him. When she saw him on the downs she

almost screamed; Lars Peter tried to reason her out of it.

Little Povl came home from the beach one morning feeling ill. He was

sick, and his head ached, he was hot one moment and cold the next.

Ditte undressed him and put him to bed; then called her father, who

was asleep in the attic.

Lars Peter hurried down. He had been out at sea the whole night and

stumbled as he walked.

"Why, Povl, little man, got a tummy-ache?" asked he, putting his

hand on the boy's forehead. It throbbed, and was burning hot. The

boy turned his head away.

"He looks really bad," he said, seating himself on the edge of the

bed, "he doesn't even know us. It's come on quickly, there was

nothing the matter with him this morning."

"He came home a few minutes ago--he was all gray in the face and

cold, and he's burning hot now. Just listen to the way he's

breathing."

They sat by the bedside, looking at him in silence; Lars Peter held

his little hand in his. It was black, with short stumpy fingers, the

nails almost worn down into the flesh. He never spared himself, the

little fellow, always ready; wide awake from the moment he opened

his eyes. Here he lay, gasping. It was a sad sight! Was it serious?

Was there to be trouble with the children again? The accident with

his first children he had shaken off--but he had none to spare now!

If anything happened to them, he had nothing more to live for--it

would be the end. He understood now that they had kept him

up--through the business with Soerine and all that followed. It was

the children who gave him strength for each new day. All his broken

hopes, all his failures, were dimmed in the cheery presence of the

children; that was perhaps why he clung to them, as he did.

Suddenly Povl jumped up and wanted to get out of bed. "Povl do an'

play, do an' play!" he said over and over again.

"He wants to go out and play," said Ditte, looking questioningly at

her father.

"Then maybe he's better already," broke out Lars Peter cheerily.

"Let him go if he wants to."

Ditte dressed him, but he drooped like a withered flower, and she

put him to bed again.

"Shall I fetch Lars Jensen's widow?" she asked. "She knows about

illness and what to do."

No--Lars Peter thought not. He would rather have a proper doctor.

"As soon as Kristian comes home from school, he can run up to the

inn, and ask for the loan of the nag," said he. "They can hardly

refuse it when the child's ill."

Kristian came back without the horse and cart, but with the

inn-keeper at his heels. He came in without knocking at the door, as

was his custom.

"I hear your little boy's ill," he said kindly. "I thought I ought

to come and see you, and perhaps give you a word of comfort. I've

brought a bottle of something to give him every half hour; it's

mixed with prayers, so at all events it can't do him any harm. Keep

him well wrapped up in bed." He leaned over the bed, listening to

the child's breathing. Povl's eyes were stiff with fear.

"You'd better keep away from the bed," said Lars Peter. "Can't you

see the boy's afraid of you?" His voice trembled with restrained

fury.

"There's many that way," answered the inn-keeper good-naturedly,

moving away from the bed. "And yet I live on, and thrive--and do my

duty as far as I can. Well, I comfort myself with the thought that

the Lord has some reward in store. Perhaps it does folks no harm to

be afraid of something, Lars Peter! But give him the mixture at

once."

"I'd rather fetch the doctor," said Lars Peter, reluctantly giving

the child the medicine. He would have preferred to throw it out of

the window--and the inn-keeper with it.

"Ay, so I understood, but I thought I'd just have a talk to you

first. What good's a doctor? It's only an expense, and he can't

change God's purpose. Poor people should learn to save."

"Ay, of course, when a man's poor he must take things as they come!"

Lars Peter laughed bitterly.

"Up at the inn we never send for the doctor. We put our lives in

God's keeping. If so be it's His will, then----"

"It seems to me there's much that happens that's not His will at

all--and in this place too," said Lars Peter defiantly.

"And yet I'll tell you that not even the smallest cod is caught--in

the hamlet either--without the will of the Father." The inn-keeper's

voice was earnest; it sounded like Scripture itself, but there was a

look in his eyes, which made Lars Peter uncomfortable all the same.

He was quite relieved when this unpleasant guest took his departure

and disappeared over the downs.

Ditte came down from the attic, where she had hidden. "What d'you

want to hide from that hunch-back for?" shouted Lars Peter. He

needed an outlet for his temper. Ditte flushed and turned away her

face.

Soon afterwards a knock sounded on the wall. It was their lame

neighbor. The daughter-in-law was at home, and sat with the twins in

her arms.

"I heard he was in your house," said the old one--"his strong voice

sounded through the walls. You be careful of him!"

"He was very kind," said Ditte evasively. "He spoke kindly to

father, and brought something for little Povl."

"So he brought something--was it medicine? Pour it into the gutter

at once. It can't do any harm there."

"But Povl's had some."

The old woman threw up her hands. "For the love of Jesus! for the

love of Jesus! Poor child!" she wailed. "Did he say anything about

death? They say in the village here every family owes him a death!

Did he say he'd provide the coffin? He manages everything--he's

always so good and helpful when anything's wrong. Ay, maybe he was

good-tempered--and the child'll be allowed to live."

Ditte burst into tears; she thought it looked bad for little Povl,

if his life depended on the inn-keeper. He was vexed with them

because the little ones were not sent to Sunday-school--perhaps he

was taking his revenge.

But in a few days Povl recovered, and was as lively as ever, running

about and never still for a minute, until suddenly he would fall

asleep in the midst of his play. Lars Peter was cheerful again, and

went about humming. Ditte sang at her washing up, following the

little lad's movements with her motherly eyes. But for safety's sake

she sent the children to Sunday-school.

CHAPTER XIII

DITTE'S CONFIRMATION

That autumn Ditte was to be confirmed. She found it very hard to

learn by rote all the psalms and hymns. She had not much time for

preparation, and her little brain had been trained in an entirely

different direction than that of learning by heart; when she had

finished her work, and brought out her catechism, it refused to stay

in her mind.

One day she came home crying. The parson had declared that she was

too far behind the others and must wait for the next confirmation;

he dared not take the responsibility of presenting her. She was in

the depths of despair; it was considered a disgrace to be kept back.

"Well,--there's no end of our troubles, it seems," broke out Lars

Peter bitterly. "They can do what they like with folks like us. I

suppose we should be thankful for being allowed to live."

"I know just as much as the others, it's not fair," sobbed Ditte.

"Fair--as if that had anything to do with it! If you did not know a

line of your catechism, I'd like to see the girl that's better

prepared to meet the Lord than you. You could easily take his

housekeeping on your shoulders; and He would be pretty blind if He

couldn't see that His little angels could never be better looked

after. The fact is we haven't given the parson enough, they're like

that--all of them--and it's the likes of them that have the keys of

Heaven! Well, it can't be helped, it won't kill us, I suppose."

Ditte refused to be comforted. "I _will_ be confirmed," she cried.

"I won't go to another class and be jeered at."

"Maybe if we tried oiling the parson a little," Lars Peter said

thoughtfully. "But it'll cost a lot of money."

"Go to the inn-keeper then--he can make it all right."

"Ay, that he can--there's not much he can't put right, if he's the

mind to. But I'm not in his good books, I'm afraid."

"That doesn't matter. He treats every one alike whether he likes

them or not."

Lars Peter did not like his errand; he was loth to ask favors of the

man; however, it must be done for the sake of the child. Much to his

surprise the inn-keeper received him kindly. "I'll certainly speak

to the parson and have it seen to," said he. "And you can send the

girl up here some day; it's the custom in the hamlet for _the

ogre's_ wife to provide clothes for girls going to be confirmed."

His big mouth widened in a grin. Lars Peter felt rather foolish.

So Ditte was confirmed after all. For a whole week she wore a long

black dress, and her hair in a thin plait down her back. In the

church she had cried; whether it was the joy of feeling grown-up, or

because it was the custom to cry, would be difficult to say. But she

enjoyed the following week, when Lars Jensen's widow came and did

her work, while she made calls and received congratulations. She was

followed by a crowd of admiring girls, and small children of the

hamlet rushed out to her shouting: "Hi, give us a ha'penny!" Lars

Peter had to give all the halfpennies he could gather together.

The week over, she returned to her old duties. Ditte discovered that

she had been grown-up for several years; her duties were neither

heavier nor lighter. She soon got accustomed to her new estate; when

they were invited out, she would take her knitting with her and sit

herself with the grown-ups.

"Won't you go with the young people?" Lars Peter would say. "They're

playing on the green tonight." She went, but soon returned.

Lars Peter was getting used to things in the hamlet; at least he

only grumbled when he had been to the tap-room and was a little

drunk. He no longer looked after the house so well; when Ditte was

short of anything she had always to ask for it--and often more than

once. It was not the old Lars Peter of the Crow's Nest, who used to

say, "Well, how goes it, Ditte, got all you want?" Having credit at

the store had made him careless. When Ditte reproached him, he

answered: "Well, what the devil, a man never sees a farthing now,

and must take things as they come!"

The extraordinary thing about the inn-keeper was, that he seemed to

know everything. As long as Lars Peter had a penny left, the

inn-keeper was unwilling to give him credit, and made him pay up

what he owed before starting a new account. In this way he had

stripped him of one hundred-crown note after the other, until by

Christmas nothing was left.

"There!" said Lars Peter when the last note went, "that's the last

of the Crow's Nest. Maybe now we'll have peace! And he can treat us

like the others in the hamlet--or I don't know where the food's to

come from."

But the inn-keeper thought differently. However often the children

came in with basket and list, they returned empty-handed. "He seems

to think there's still something to get out of us," said Lars Peter.

It was a sad lookout. Ditte had promised herself that they should

have a really good time this Christmas; she had ordered flour, and

things for cakes, and a piece of pork to be stuffed and cooked like

a goose. Here she was empty-handed; all her beautiful plans had come

to nothing. Up in the attic was the Christmas tree which the little

ones had taken from the plantation; what good was it now, without

candles and ornaments?

"Never mind," said Lars Peter, "we'll get over that too. We've got

fish and potatoes, so we shan't starve!" But the little ones cried.

Ditte made the best of a bad job, and went down to the beach, where

she got a pair of wild ducks that had been caught in the nets: she

cleaned and dressed them--and thus their Christmas dinner was

provided. A few red apples--which from time to time had been given

her by the old couple at the Gingerbread House, and which she had

not eaten because they were so beautiful--were put on the Christmas

tree. "We'll hang the lantern on the top, and then it'll look quite

fine," she explained to the little ones. She had borrowed some

coffee and some brandy--her father should not be without his

Christmas drink.

She had scrubbed and cleaned the whole day, to make everything look

as nice as possible; now she went into the kitchen and lit the fire.

Lars Peter and the children were in the living room in the dusk--she

could hear her father telling stories of when he was a boy. Ditte

hummed, feeling pleased with everything.

Suddenly she screamed. The upper half of the kitchen door had

opened. Against the evening sky she saw the head and shoulders of a

deformed body, a goblin, in the act of lifting a parcel in over the

door. "Here's a few things for you," he said, panting, pushing the

parcel along the kitchen-table. "A happy Christmas!" And he was

gone.

They unpacked the parcel in the living room. It contained everything

they had asked for, and many other things beside, which they had

often wished for but had never dreamt of ordering: a calendar with

stories, a pound of cooking chocolate, and a bottle of old French

wine. "It's just like the Lord," said Ditte in whose mind there were

still the remains of the parson's teaching--"when it looks blackest

He always helps."

"Ah, the inn-keeper's a funny fellow, there we've been begging for

things and got nothing but kicks in return; and then he brings

everything himself! He's up to something, I'm afraid. Well, whatever

it may be--the things'll taste none the worse for it!" Lars Peter

was not in the least touched by the gift.

Whatever it might be--at all events it did not end with Christmas.

They continued to get goods from the store. The inn-keeper often

crossed off things from the list, which he considered superfluous,

but the children never returned with an empty basket. Ditte still

thought she saw the hand of Providence in this, but Lars Peter

viewed it more soberly.

"The devil, he can't let us starve to death, when we're working for

him," said he. "You'll see the rascal's found out that there's

nothing more to be got out of us, he's a sharp nose, he has."

The explanation was not entirely satisfactory--even to Lars Peter

himself. There was something about the inn-keeper which could not be

reckoned as money. He was anxious to rule, and did not spare himself

in any way. He was always up and doing; he had every family's

affairs in his head, knew them better than they did themselves, and

interfered. There was both good and bad in his knowledge; no-one

knew when to expect him.

Lars Peter was to feel his fatherly care in a new direction. One day

the inn-keeper said casually: "that's a big girl, you've got there,

Lars Peter; she ought to be able to pay for her keep soon."

"She's earned her bread for many a year, and more too!" answered

Lars Peter. "I don't know what I'd have done without her."

The inn-keeper went on his way, but another time when Lars Peter was

outside chopping wood he came again and began where he left off. "I

don't like to see children hanging about after they've been

confirmed," said he. "The sooner they get out the quicker they learn

to look after themselves."

"Poor people learn that soon enough whether they are at home or out

at service," answered Lars Peter. "We couldn't do without our little

housekeeper."

"They'd like to have Ditte at the hill-farm next May--it's a good

place. I've been thinking Lars Jensen's widow could come and keep

house for you; she's a good worker and she's nothing to do. You

might do worse than marry her."

"I've a wife that's good enough for me," answered Lars Peter

shortly.

"But she's in prison--and you're not obliged to stick to her if you

don't want to."

"Ay, I've heard that, but Soerine'll want somewhere to go when she

comes out."

"Well, that's a matter for your own conscience, Lars Peter. But the

Scriptures say nothing about sharing your home with a murderess.

What I wanted to say was, that Lars Jensen's wife takes up a whole

house."

"Then perhaps we could move down to her?" said Lars Peter brightly.

"It's not very pleasant living here in the long run." He had given

up all hope of building himself.

"If you marry her, you can consider the house your own."

"I'll stick to Soerine, I tell you," shouted Lars Peter, thumping his

ax into the block. "Now, you know it."

The inn-keeper went off, as quietly and kindly as he had come. Jacob

the fisherman stood behind the house pointing at him with his gun;

it was loaded with salt, he was only waiting for the _word_ to

shoot. The inn-keeper looked at him as he passed and said, "Well,

are you out with your gun today?" Jacob shuffled out of the way.

The inn-keeper's new order brought sorrow to the little house. It

was like losing a mother. What would they do without their

house-wife, Ditte, who looked after them all?

Ditte herself took it more quietly. She had always known that sooner

or later she would have to go out to service--she was born to it.

And all through her childhood it ran like a crimson thread; she must

prepare herself for a future master and mistress. "Eat, child,"

Granny had said, "and grow big and strong and able to make the most

of yourself when you're out amongst strangers!" And Soerine--when her

turn came--had made it a daily saying: "You'd better behave, or

no-one'll have you." The schoolmaster had interwoven it with his

teachings, and the parson involuntarily turned to her when speaking

of faithful service. She had performed her daily tasks with the

object of becoming a clever servant--and she thought with a mixture

of fear and expectation of the great moment when she should enter

service in reality.

The time was drawing near. She was sorry, and more so for those at

home. For herself--it was something that could not be helped.

She prepared everything as far as possible beforehand, taught sister

Else her work, and showed her where everything was kept. She was a

thoughtful child, easily managed. It was more difficult with

Kristian. Ditte was troubled at the thought of what would happen,

when she was not there to keep him in order. Every day she spoke

seriously to him.

"You'll have to give up your foolish ways, and running off when

you're vexed with any one," said she. "Remember, you're the eldest;

it'll be your fault if Povl and sister turn out badly! They've

nobody but you to look to now. And stop teasing old Jacob, it's a

shame to do it."

Kristian promised everything--he had the best will in the world.

Only he could never remember to keep his good resolutions.

There was no need to give Povl advice, he was too small. And good

enough as he was. Dear, fat, little fellow! It was strange to think

that she was going to leave him; several times during the day Ditte

would hug him.

"If only Lars Jensen's widow'll be good to the children--and

understand how to manage them!" she said to her father. "You see,

she's never had children of her own. It must be strange after all!"

Lars Peter laughed.

"It'll be all right," he thought, "she's a good woman. But we shall

miss you sorely."

"I'm sure you will," answered Ditte seriously. "But she's not

wasteful--that's one good thing."

In the evening, when she had done her daily tasks and the children

were in bed, Ditte went through drawers and cupboards so as to leave

everything in order for her successor. The children's clothes were

carefully examined--and the linen; clean paper was put in the

drawers and everything tidied up. Ditte lingered over her work: it

was like a silent devotion. The child was bidding farewell to her

dear troublesome world, feeling grateful even for the toil and

trouble they had given her.

When Lars Peter was not out fishing she would sit beside him under

the lamp with some work or other in her hands, and they spoke

seriously about the future, giving each other good advice.

"When you get amongst strangers you must listen carefully to

everything that's said to you," Lars Peter would say. "Nothing vexes

folks more than having to say a thing twice. And then you must

remember that it doesn't matter so much how you do a thing, as to do

it as they like it. They've all got their own ways, and it's hard to

get into sometimes."

"Oh, I'll get on all right," answered Ditte--rather more bravely

than she really felt.

"Ay, you're clever enough for your age, but it's not always that.

You must always show a good-tempered face--whether you feel it or

not. It's what's expected from folks that earn their bread."

"If anything happens, I'll just give them a piece of my mind."

"Ay, but don't be too ready with your mouth! The truth's not always

wanted, and least of all from a servant: the less they have to say

the better they get on. Just you keep quiet and think what you

like--that no-one can forbid you. And then you know, you've always

got a home here if you're turned out of your place. You must never

leave before your term is up; it's a bad thing to do--whatever you

do it for. Rather bear a little unfairness."

"But can't I stand up for my rights?" Ditte did not understand.

"Ay, so you ought--but what is your right? Anyone that's got the

power gets the right on his side, that's often proved. But you'll be

all right if you're sensible and put your back to the wall."

* * * * *

Then came the last night. Ditte had spent the day saying good-by in

the different huts. She could have found a better way to spend these

last precious hours, but it was a necessary evil, and if she did not

do it they would talk of it behind her back. The three little ones

followed close at her heels.

"You mustn't come in," said she. "We can't all go, there's too many,

they'll think we want to be treated to something."

So they hid themselves nearby, while she was inside, and went with

her to the next house; today they _would_ be near her. And they had

been so the whole day long. The walk along the beach out to the

Naze, where they could see the hill-farm had come to nothing. It was

too late, and Ditte had to retract her promise. It cost some tears.

The farm where Ditte was going out to service played a strong part

in their imagination. They were only comforted, when their father

promised that on Sunday morning he would take them for a row.

"Out there you can see the hill-farm and all the land round about

it, and maybe Ditte'll be standing there and waving to us," he said.

"Isn't it really further off than that?" asked Ditte.

"Oh, it's about fourteen miles, so of course you'd have to have good

eyes," answered Lars Peter, trying to smile. He was not in the humor

for fun.

Now at last the three little ones were in the big bed, sleeping

peacefully, Povl at one end, sister and Kristian at the other. There

was just room for Ditte, who had promised to sleep with them the

last night. Ditte busied herself in the living room, Lars Peter sat

by the window trying to read Soerine's last letter. It was only a few

words. Soerine was not good at writing; he read and re-read it, in a

half-whisper. There was a feeling of oppression in the room.

"When's Mother coming out?" asked Ditte, suddenly coming towards

him.

Lars Peter took up a calendar. "As far as I can make out, there's

still another year," he said quietly. "D'you want to see her too?"

Ditte made no answer. Shortly afterwards she asked him: "D'you think

she's altered?"

"You're thinking of the little ones, I suppose. I think she cares a

little more for them now. Want makes a good teacher. You must go to

bed now, you'll have to be up early in the morning, and it's a long

way. Let Kristian go with you--and let him carry your bundle as far

as he goes. It'll be a tiresome way for you. I'm sorry I can't go

with you!"

"Oh, I shall be all right," said Ditte, trying to speak cheerfully,

but her voice broke, and suddenly she threw her arms round him.

Lars Peter stayed beside her until she had fallen asleep, then went

up to bed himself. From the attic he could hear her softly moaning

in her sleep.

At midnight he came downstairs again, he was in oilskins and carried

a lantern. The light shone on the bed--all four were asleep. But

Ditte was tossing restlessly, fighting with something in her dreams.

"Sister must eat her dinner," she moaned, "it'll never do ... she'll

get so thin."

"Ay, ay," said Lars Peter with emotion. "Father'll see she gets

enough to eat."

Carefully he covered them up, and went down to the sea.

End of Project Gutenberg's Ditte: Girl Alive!, by Martin Andersen Nexo