Pelle awoke to find Hanne standing by his bed and pulling his nose, and
imitating his comical grimaces. She had come in over the roof. “Why are
you stopping here, you?” she said eagerly. “We are waiting for you!”
“I can’t get up!” replied Pelle piteously. “Pipman went out overnight
with my trousers on and hasn’t come back, so I lay down to sleep
again!” Hanne broke into a ringing laugh. “What if he never comes back
at all? You’ll have to lie in bed always, like Mother Jahn!”
At this Pelle laughed too.
“I really don’t know what I shall do! You must just go without me.”
“No, that we shan’t!” said Hanne very decidedly. “No, we’ll fetch the
picnic-basket and spread the things on your counterpane! After all,
it’s green! But wait now, I know what!” And she slipped through the
back door and out on to the roof. Half an hour later she came again and
threw a pair of striped trousers on the bed. “He’s obliging, is Herr
Klodsmajor! Now just hurry yourself a bit. I ran round to see the
hearse-driver’s Marie, where she works, and she gave me a pair of her
master’s week-day breeches. But she must have them again early
to-morrow morning, so that his lordship doesn’t notice it.”
Directly she had gone Pelle jumped into the trousers. Just as he was
ready he heard a terrific creaking of timbers. The Pipman was coming up
the stairs. He held the rope in one hand, and at every turn of the
staircase he bowed a few times outward over the rope. The women were
shrieking in the surrounding galleries and landings. That amused him.
His big, venerable head beamed with an expression of sublime joy.
“Ah, hold your tongue!” he said good-naturedly, as soon as he set eyes
on Pelle. “You hold your tongue!” He propped himself up in the doorway
and stood there staring.
Pelle seized him by the collar. “Where are my Sunday trousers?” he
asked angrily. The Pipman had the old ones on, but where were the new?
The Pipman stared at him uncomprehending, his drowsy features working
in the effort to disinter some memory or other. Suddenly he whistled.
“Trousers, did you say, young man? What, what? Did you really say
trousers? And you ask me where your trousers have got to? Then you
might have said so at once! Because, d’you see, your bags … I’ve … yes
… why, I’ve pawned them!”
“You’ve pawned my best trousers?” cried Pelle, so startled that he
loosed his hold.
“Yes, by God, that’s what I did! You can look for yourself—there’s no
need to get so hot about it! You can’t eat me, you know. That goes
without saying. Yes, that’s about it. One just mustn’t get excited!”
“You’re a scoundrelly thief!” cried Pelle. “That’s what you are!”
“Now, now, comrade, always keep cool! Don’t shout yourself hoarse.
Nothing’s been taken by me. Pipman’s a respectable man, I tell you.
Here, you can see for yourself! What’ll you give me for that, eh?” He
had taken the pawnticket from his pocket and held it out to Pelle,
deeply offended.
Pelle fingered his collar nervously; he was quite beside himself with
rage. But what was the use? And now Hanne and her mother had come out
over yonder. Hanne was wearing a yellow straw hat with broad ribbons.
She looked bewitching; the old lady had the lunch-basket on her arm.
She locked the door carefully and put the key under the doorstep. Then
they set out.
There was no reasoning with this sot of a Pipman! He edged round Pelle
with an uncertain smile, gazed inquisitively into his face, and kept
carefully just out of his reach. “You’re angry, aren’t you?” he said
confidingly, as though he had been speaking to a little child.
“Dreadfully angry? But what the devil do you want with two pairs of
trousers, comrade? Yes, what do you want with two pairs of trousers?”
His voice sounded quite bewildered and reproachful.
Pelle pulled out a pair of easy-looking women’s shoes from under his
bed, and slipped out through the inner door. He squeezed his way
between the steep roof and the back wall of the room, ducked under a
beam or two, and tumbled into the long gangway which ran between the
roof- buildings and had rooms on either side of it. A loud buzzing
sound struck suddenly on his ears. The doors of all the little rooms
stood open on to the long gangway, which served as a common livingroom.
Wrangling and chattering and the crying of children surged together in
a deafening uproar; here was the life of a bee-hive. Here it’s really
lively, thought Pelle. To-morrow I shall move over here! He had thought
over this for a long time, and now there should be an end of his
lodging with Pipman.
In front of one of the doors stood a little eleven-years-old maiden,
who was polishing a pair of plump-looking boy’s boots; she wore an
apron of sacking which fell down below her ankles, so that she kept
treading on it. Within the room two children of nine and twelve were
moving backward and forward with mighty strides, their hands in their
pockets. Then enjoyed Sundays. In their clean shirt-sleeves, they
looked like a couple of little grown-up men. This was the “Family”;
they were Pelle’s rescuers.
“Here are your shoes, Marie,” said Pelle. “I couldn’t do them any
better.”
She took them eagerly and examined the soles. Pelle had repaired them
with old leather, and had therefore polished the insteps with cobbler’s
wax. “They’re splendid now!” she whispered, and she looked at him
gratefully. The boys came and shook hands with Pelle. “What will the
shoes cost?” asked the elder, feeling for his purse with a solemn
countenance.
“We’d better let that stand over, Peter; I’m in a hurry to-day,” said
Pelle, laughing. “We’ll put it on the account until the New Year.”
“I’m going out, too, to-day with the boys,” said Marie, beaming with
delight. “And you are going to the woods with Hanne and her mother, we
know all about it!” Hopping and skipping, she accompanied him to the
steps, and stood laughing down at him. To-day she was really like a
child; the shrewd, old, careful woman was as though cast to the winds.
“You can go down the main staircase,” she cried.
A narrow garret-stairs led down to the main staircase, which lay inside
the building and was supposed to be used only by those who lived on the
side facing the street. This was the fashionable portion of the “Ark”;
here lived old sea-dogs, shipbuilders, and other folks with regular
incomes. The tradesmen who rented the cellars—the coal merchant, the
old iron merchant, and the old clothes dealer, also had their dwellings
here.
These dwellings were composed of two splendid rooms; they had no
kitchen or entry, but in a corner of the landing on the main staircase,
by the door, each family had a sink with a little board cover. When the
cover was on one could use the sink as a seat; this was very
convenient.
The others had almost reached the Knippels Bridge when he overtook
them. “What a long time you’ve been!” said Hanne, as she took his arm.
“And how’s the ‘Family?’ Was Marie pleased with the shoes? Poor little
thing, she hasn’t been out for two Sundays because she had no soles to
her shoes.”
“She had only to come to me; I’m ever so much in her debt!”
“No, don’t you believe she’d do that. The ‘Family’ is proud. I had to
go over and steal the shoes somehow!”
“Poor little things!” said Madam Johnsen, “it’s really touching to see
how they hold together! And they know how to get along. But why are you
taking Pelle’s arm, Hanne? You don’t mean anything by it.”
“Must one always mean something by it, little mother? Pelle is my young
man to-day, and has to protect me.”
“Good Lord, what is he to protect you from? From yourself, mostly, and
that’s not easy!”
“Against a horde of robbers, who will fall upon me in the forest and
carry me away. And you’ll have to pay a tremendous ransom!”
“Good Lord, I’d much rather pay money to get rid of you! If I had any
money at all! But have you noticed how blue the sky is? It’s splendid
with all this sun on your back—it warms you right through the cockles
of your heart.”
At the Triangle they took an omnibus and bowled along the sea-front.
The vehicle was full of cheerful folk; they sat there laughing at a
couple of good-natured citizens who were perspiring and hurling silly
witticisms at one another. Behind them the dust rolled threateningly,
and hung in a lazy cloud round the great black waterbutts which stood
on their high trestles along the edge of the road. Out in the Sound the
boats lay with sails outspread, but did not move; everything was
keeping the Sabbath.
In the Zoological Gardens it was fresh and cool. The beech-leaves still
retained their youthful brightness, and looked wonderfully light and
festive against the century-old trunks. “Heigh, how beautiful the
forest is!” cried Pelle. “It is like an old giant who has taken a young
bride!”
He had never been in a real beech-wood before. One could wander about
here as in a church. There were lots of other people here as well; all
Copenhagen was on its legs in this fine weather. The people were as
though intoxicated by the sunshine; they were quite boisterous, and the
sound of their voices lingered about the tree-tops and only challenged
them to give vent to their feelings. People went strolling between the
tree-trunks and amusing themselves in their own way, laying about them
with great boughs and shouting with no other object than to hear their
own voices. On the borders of the wood, a few men were standing and
singing in chorus; they wore white caps, and over the grassy meadows
merry groups were strolling or playing touch or rolling in the grass
like young kittens.
Madam Johnsen walked confidently a few steps in advance; she was the
most at home out here and led the way. Pelle and Hanne walked close
together, in order to converse. Hanne was silent and absent; Pelle took
her hand in order to make her run up a hillock, but she did not at
first notice that he was touching her, and the hand was limp and
clammy. She walked on as in a sleep, her whole bearing lifeless and
taciturn. “She’s dreaming!” said Pelle, and released her hand,
offended. It fell lifelessly to her side.
The old woman turned round and looked about her with beaming eyes.
“The forest hasn’t been so splendid for many years,” she said. “Not
since I was a young girl.”
They climbed up past the Hermitage and thence out over the grass and
into the forest again, until they came to the little ranger’s house
where they drank coffee and ate some of the bread-and-butter they had
brought with them. Then they trudged on again. Madam Johnsen was paying
a rare visit to the forest and wanted to see everything. The young
people raised objections, but she was not to be dissuaded. She had
girlhood memories of the forest, and she wanted to renew them; let them
say what they would. If they were tired of running after her they could
go their own way. But they followed her faithfully, looking about them
wearily and moving along dully onward, moving along rather more
stupidly than was justifiable.
On the path leading to Raavad there were not so many people.
“It’s just as forest-like here as in my young days!” said the old
woman. “And beautiful it is here. The leaves are so close, it’s just
the place for a loving couple of lovers. Now I’m going to sit down and
take my boots off for a bit, my feet are beginning to hurt me. You look
about you for a bit.”
But the young people looked at one another strangely and threw
themselves down at her feet. She had taken off her boots, and was
cooling her feet in the fresh grass as she sat there chatting. “It’s so
warm to-day the stones feel quite burning—but you two certainly won’t
catch fire. Why do you stare in that funny way? Give each other a kiss
in the grass, now! There’s no harm in it, and it’s so pretty to see!”
Pelle did not move. But Hanne moved over to him on her knees, put her
hands gently round his head, and kissed him. When she had done so she
looked into his eyes, lovingly, as a child might look at her doll. Her
hat had slipped on to her shoulders. On her white forehead and her
upper lip were little clear drops of sweat. Then, with a merry laugh,
she suddenly released him. Pelle and the old woman had gathered flowers
and boughs of foliage; these they now began to arrange. Hanne lay on
her back and gazed up at the sky.
“You leave that old staring of yours alone,” said the mother. “It does
you no good.”
“I’m only playing at ‘Glory’; it’s such a height here,” said Hanne.
“But at home in the ‘Ark’ you see more. Here it’s too light.”
“Yes, God knows, one does see more—a sewer and two privies. A good
thing it’s so dark there. No, one ought to have enough money to be able
to go into the forests every Sunday all the summer. When one has grown
up in the open air it’s hard to be penned in between dirty walls all
one’s life. But now I think we ought to be going on. We waste so much
time.”
“Oh Lord, and I’m so comfortable lying here!” said Hanne lazily.
“Pelle, just push my shawl under my head!”
Out of the boughs high above them broke a great bird. “There, there,
what a chap!” cried Pelle, pointing at it. It sailed slowly downward,
on its mighty outspread wings, now and again compressing the air
beneath it with a few powerful strokes, and then flew onward, close
above the tree- tops, with a scrutinizing glance.
“Jiminy, I believe that was a stork!” said Madam Johnsen. She reached
for her boots, alarmed. “I won’t stay here any longer now. One never
knows what may happen.” She hastily laced up her boots, with a prudish
expression on her face. Pelle laughed until the tears stood in his
eyes.
Hanne raised her head. “That was surely a crane, don’t you think so?
Stupid bird, always to fly along like that, staring down at everything
as though he were short-sighted. If I were he I should fly straight up
in the air and then shut my eyes and come swooping down. Then, wherever
one got to, something or other would happen.”
“Sure enough, this would happen, that you’d fall into the sea and be
drowned. Hanne has always had the feeling that something has got to
happen; and for that reason she can never hold on to what she’s got in
her hands.”
“No, for I haven’t anything in them!” cried Hanne, showing her hands
and laughing. “Can you hold what you haven’t got, Pelle?”
About four o’clock they came to the Schleswig Stone, where the Social-
Democrats were holding a meeting. Pelle had never yet attended any big
meeting at which he could hear agitators speaking, but had obtained his
ideas of the new movements at second hand. They were in tune with the
blind instinct within him. But he had never experienced anything really
electrifying—only that confused, monotonous surging such as he had
heard in his childhood when he listened with his ear to the hollow of
the wooden shoe.
“Well, it looks as if the whole society was here!” said Madam Johnsen
half contemptuously. “Now you can see all the Social-Democrats of
Copenhagen. They never have been more numerous, although they pretend
the whole of society belongs to them. But things don’t always go so
smoothly as they do on paper.”
Pelle frowned, but was silent. He himself knew too little of the matter
to be able to convert another.
The crowd affected him powerfully; here were several thousands of
people gathered together for a common object, and it became exceedingly
clear to him that he himself belonged to this crowd. “I belong to them
too!” Over and over again the words repeated themselves rejoicingly in
his mind. He felt the need to verify it all himself, and to prove
himself grateful for the quickly-passing day. If the Court shoemaker
hadn’t spoken the words that drove him to join the Union he would still
have been standing apart from it all, like a heathen. The act of
subscribing the day before was like a baptism. He felt quite different
in the society of these men—he felt as he did not feel with others. And
as the thousands of voices broke into song, a song of jubilation of the
new times that were to come, a cold shudder went through him. He had a
feeling as though a door within him had opened, and as though something
that had lain closely penned within him had found its way to the light.
Up on the platform stood a darkish man talking earnestly in a mighty
voice. Shoulder to shoulder the crowd stood breathless, listening open-
mouthed, with every face turned fixedly upon the speaker. A few were so
completely under his spell that they reproduced the play of his
features. When he made some particular sally from his citadel a murmur
of admiration ran through the crowd. There was no shouting. He spoke of
want and poverty, of the wearisome, endless wandering that won no
further forward. As the Israelites in their faith bore the Ark of the
Covenant through the wilderness, so the poor bore their hope through
the unfruitful years. If one division was overthrown another was ready
with the carrying-staves, and at last the day was breaking. Now they
stood at the entrance to the Promised Land, with the proof in their
hands that they were the rightful dwellers therein. All that was quite
a matter of course; if there was anything that Pelle had experienced it
was that wearisome wandering of God’s people through the wilderness.
That was the great symbol of poverty. The words came to him like
something long familiar. But the greatness of the man’s voice affected
Pelle; there was something in the speech of this man which did not
reach him through the understanding, but seemed somehow to burn its way
in through the skin, there to meet something that lay expanding within
him. The mere ring of anger in his voice affected Pelle; his words beat
upon one’s old wounds, so that they broke open like poisonous ulcers,
and one heaved a deep breath of relief. Pelle had heard such a voice,
ringing over all, when he lived in the fields and tended cows. He felt
as though he too must let himself go in a great shout and subdue the
whole crowd by his voice —he too! To be able to speak like that, now
thundering and now mild, like the ancient prophets!
A peculiar sense of energy was exhaled by this dense crowd of men, this
thinking and feeling crowd. It produced a singular feeling of strength.
Pelle was no longer the poor journeyman shoemaker, who found it
difficult enough to make his way. He became one, as he stood there,
with that vast being; he felt its strength swelling within him; the
little finger shares in the strength of the whole body. A blind
certainty of irresistibility went out from this mighty gathering, a
spur to ride the storm with. His limbs swelled; he became a vast,
monstrous being that only needed to go trampling onward in order to
conquer everything. His brain was whirling with energy, with
illimitable, unconquerable strength!
Pelle had before this gone soaring on high and had come safely to earth
again. And this time also he came to ground, with a long sigh of
relief, as though he had cast off a heavy burden. Hanne’s arm lay in
his; he pressed it slightly. But she did notice him; she too now was
far away. He looked at her pretty neck, and bent forward to see her
face. The great yellow hat threw a golden glimmer over it. Her active
intelligence played restlessly behind her strained, frozen features;
her eyes looked fixedly before her. It has taken hold of her too, he
thought, full of happiness; she is far away from here. It was something
wonderful to know that they were coupled together in the same
interests—were like man and wife!
At that very moment he accidentally noticed the direction of her fixed
gaze, and a sharp pain ran through his heart. Standing on the level
ground, quite apart from the crowd, stood a tall, handsome man,
astonishingly like the owner of Stone Farm in his best days; the
sunlight was coming and going over his brown skin and his soft beard.
Now that he turned his face toward Pelle his big, open features
reminded him of the sea.
Hanne started, as though awakening from a deep sleep, and noticed
Pelle.
“He is a sailor!” she said, in a curious, remote voice, although Pelle
had not questioned her. God knows, thought Pelle, vexedly, how is it
she knows him; and he drew his arm from hers. But she took it again at
once and pressed it against her soft bosom. It was as though she
suddenly wanted to give him a feeling of security.
She hung heavily on his arm and stood with her eyes fixed unwaveringly
on the speakers’ platform. Her hands busied themselves nervously about
her hair. “You are so restless, child,” said the mother, who had seated
herself at their feet. “You might let me lean back against your knee; I
was sitting so comfortably before.”
“Yes,” said Hanne, and she put herself in the desired position. Her
voice sounded quite excited.
“Pelle,” she whispered suddenly, “if he comes over to us I shan’t
answer him. I shan’t.”
“Do you know him, then?”
“No, but it does happen sometimes that men come and speak to one. But
then you’ll say I belong to you, won’t you?”
Pelle was going to refuse, but a shudder ran through her. She’s
feverish, he thought compassionately; one gets fever so easily in the
“Ark.” It comes up with the smell out of the sewer. She must have lied
to me nicely, he thought after a while. Women are cunning, but he was
too proud to question her. And then the crowd shouted “Hurrah!” so that
the air rang. Pelle shouted with them; and when they had finished the
man had disappeared.
They went over to the Hill, the old woman keeping her few steps in
advance. Hanne hummed as she went; now and then she looked
questioningly at Pelle—and then went on humming.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” said Pelle morosely. “But it’s not right
of you to have lied to me.”
“I lie to you? But Pelle!” She gazed wonderingly into his eyes.
“Yes, that you do! There’s something between you and him.”
Hanne laughed, a clear, innocent laugh, but suddenly broken off. “No,
Pelle, no, what should I have to do with him? I have never even seen
him before. I have never even once kissed a man—yes, you, but you are
my brother.”
“I don’t particularly care about being your brother—not a straw, and
you know that!”
“Have I done anything to offend you? I’m sorry if I have.” She seized
his hand.
“I want you for my wife!” cried Pelle passionately.
Hanne laughed. “Did you hear, mother? Pelle wants me for his wife!” she
cried, beaming.
“Yes, I see and hear more than you think,” said Madam Johnsen shortly.
Hanne looked from one to the other and became serious. “You are so
good, Pelle,” she said softly, “but you can’t come to me bringing me
something from foreign parts—I know everything about you, but I’ve
never dreamed of you at night. Are you a fortunate person?”
“I’ll soon show you if I am,” said Pelle, raising his head. “Only give
me a little time.”
“Lord, now she’s blethering about fortune again,” cried the mother,
turning round. “You really needn’t have spoiled this lovely day for us
with your nonsense. I was enjoying it all so.”
Hanne laughed helplessly. “Mother will have it that I’m not quite right
in my mind, because father hit me on the head once when I was a little
girl,” she told Pelle.
“Yes, it’s since then she’s had these ideas. She’ll do nothing but go
rambling on at random with her ideas and her wishes. She’ll sit whole
days at the window and stare, and she used to make the children down in
the yard even crazier than herself with her nonsense. And she was
always bothering me to leave everything standing—poor as we were after
my man died—just to go round and round the room with her and the dolls
and sing those songs all about earls. Yes, Pelle, you may believe I’ve
wept tears of blood over her.”
Hanne wandered on, laughing at her mother’s rebuke, and humming—it was
the tune of the “Earl’s Song.”
“There, you hear her yourself,” said the old woman, nudging Pelle.
“She’s got no shame in her—there’s nothing to be done with her!”
Up on the hill there was a deafening confusion of people in playful
mood; wandering to and fro in groups, blowing into children’s trumpets
and “dying pigs,” and behaving like frolicsome wild beasts. At every
moment some one tooted in your ear, to make you jump, or you suddenly
discovered that some rogue was fixing something on the back of your
coat. Hanne was nervous; she kept between Pelle and her mother, and
could not stand still. “No, let’s go away somewhere—anywhere!” she
said, laughing in bewilderment.
Pelle wanted to treat them to coffee, so they went on till they found a
tent where there was room for them. Hallo! There was the hurdy-gurdy
man from home, on a roundabout, nodding to him as he went whirling
round. He held his hand in front of his mouth like a speaking-trumpet
in order to shout above the noise. “Mother’s coming up behind you with
the Olsens,” he roared.
“I can’t hear what he says at all,” said Madam Johnsen. She didn’t care
about meeting people out of the “Ark” to-day.
When the coffee was finished they wandered up and down between the
booths and amused themselves by watching the crowd. Hanne consented to
have her fortune told; it cost five and twenty öre, but she was
rewarded by an unexpected suitor who was coming across the sea with
lots of money. Her eyes shone.
“I could have done it much better than that!” said Madam Johnsen.
“No, mother, for you never foretell me anything but misfortune,”
replied Hanne, laughing.
Madam Johnsen met an acquaintance who was selling “dying pigs.” She sat
down beside her. “You go over there now and have a bit of a dance while
I rest my tired legs,” she said.
The young people went across to the dancing marquee and stood among the
onlookers. From time to time they had five öre worth of dancing. When
other men came up and asked Hanne to dance, she shook her head; she did
not care to dance with any one but Pelle.
The rejected applicants stood a little way off, their hats on the backs
of their heads, and reviled her. Pelle had to reprove her. “You have
offended them,” he said, “and perhaps they’re screwed and will begin to
quarrel.”
“Why should I be forced to dance with anybody, with somebody I don’t
know at all?” replied Hanne. “I’m only going to dance with you!” She
made angry eyes, and looked bewitching in her unapproachableness. Pelle
had nothing against being her only partner. He would gladly have fought
for her, had it been needful.
When they were about to go he discovered the foreigner right at the
back of the dancing-tent. He urged Hanne to make haste, but she stood
there, staring absent-mindedly in the midst of the dancers as though
she did not know what was happening around her. The stranger came over
to them. Pelle was certain that Hanne had not seen him.
Suddenly she came to herself and gripped Pelle’s arm. “Shan’t we go,
then?” she said impatiently, and she quickly dragged him away.
At the doorway the stranger came to meet them and bowed before Hanne.
She did not look at him, but her left arm twitched as though she wanted
to lay it across his shoulders.
“My sweetheart isn’t dancing any more; she is tired,” said Pelle
shortly, and he led her away.
“A good thing we’ve come out from there,” she cried, with a feeling of
deliverance, as they went back to her mother. “There were no amusing
dancers.”
Pelle was taken aback; then she had not seen the stranger, but merely
believed that it had been one of the others who had asked her to dance!
It was inconceivable that she should have seen him; and yet a peculiar
knowledge had enveloped her, as though she had seen obliquely through
her down-dropped eyelids; and then it was well known women could see
round corners! And that twitch of the arm! He did not know what to
think. “Well, it’s all one to me,” he thought, “for I’m not going to be
led by the nose!”
He had them both on his arm as they returned under the trees to the
station. The old woman was lively; Hanne walked on in silence and let
them both talk. But suddenly she begged Pelle to be quiet a moment; he
looked at her in surprise.
“It’s singing so beautifully in my ears; but when you talk then it
stops!”
“Nonsense! Your blood is too unruly,” said the mother, “and mouths were
meant to be used.”
During the journey Pelle was reserved. Now and again he pressed Hanne’s
hand, which lay, warm and slightly perspiring, in his upon the seat.
But the old woman’s delight was by no means exhausted, the light
shining from the city and the dark peaceful Sound had their message for
her secluded life, and she began to sing, in a thin, quavering
falsetto:
“Gently the Night upon her silent wings
Comes, and the stars are bright in east and west;
And lo, the bell of evening rings;
And men draw homewards, and the birds all rest.”
But from the Triangle onward it was difficult for her to keep step; she
had run herself off her legs.
“Many thanks for to-day,” she said to Pelle, down in the courtyard.
“To- morrow one must start work again and clean old uniform trousers.
But it’s been a beautiful outing.” She waddled forward and up the
steps, groaning a little at the numbers of them, talking to herself.
Hanne stood hesitating. “Why did you say ‘my sweetheart’?” she asked
suddenly. “I’m not.”
“You told me to,” answered Pelle, who would willingly have said more.
“Oh, well!” said Hanne, and she ran up the stairs. “Goodnight, Pelle!”
she called down to him.