“That picture is worth a deal of money.”
The woman thinks I am making game of her, so I make a close inspection
of the picture, and declare emphatically that it is no cheap print--no.
But the woman is quite stupid, and simply says: well, did I think so,
now? The thing had hung there ever since the house was built. It was
Olga's, by the way, she had called it hers from the time she was a
little one.
I put on a knowing, mysterious air, and ask for further details of the
case--where Hersæt might be.
Hersæt was in the neighbouring parish, some eight miles away. The
Lensmand lived there....
The coffee is ready, and Olga and I call a halt. There are only the
fastenings to be done now. I ask to see the blouse she is to wear with
the skirt, and it appears that this is not a real blouse at all, but a
knitted kerchief. But she has a left-off jacket that one of her sisters
gave her, and that will go outside and hide all the rest.
Olga is growing so fast, I am told, that there's no sense in buying a
blouse for her this twelvemonth to come.
Olga sits sewing on hooks and eyes, and that is soon done. Then she
turns so sleepy, it's a sight to see; wherefore I put on an air of
authority and order her to bed. Her mother feels constrained to sit up
and keep me company, though I tell her myself to go back to bed again.
“You ought to be properly thankful, I'm sure,” says the mother, “to the
strange man for all the way he's helped you.”
And Olga comes up to me and gives her hand to thank me, and I turn her
round and shuffle her across to the bedroom door.
“You'd better go too,” I say to her mother. “I won't sit talking any
more, for I'm tired myself.”
And, seeing I settle down by the stove with my sack under my head, she
shakes her head with a smile and goes off too.