Part 20 (1/2)

”Ay, but it's got something to do--and we've a long journey in front of us.” Lars Peter came back and began sorting again.

”How many miles is it to Copenhagen then?”

”Six or seven hours' drive, I should say; we've got a load.”

”Ugh, what a long way.” Ditte s.h.i.+vered. ”And it's so cold.”

”Ay, if I'm to go alone. But you might go with me! 'Tisn't a pleasant errand, and the time'll go slowly all that long way. And one can't get away from sad thoughts!”

”I can't leave home,” answered Ditte shortly.

For about the twentieth time Lars Peter tried to talk her over. ”We can easily get Johansens to keep an eye on everything--and can send the children over to them for a few days,” said he.

But Ditte was not to be shaken. Her mother was nothing to her, people could say what they liked; she _would_ not go and see her in prison. And her father ought to stop talking like that or she would be angry; it reminded her of Granny. She hated her mother with all her heart, in a manner strange for her years. She never mentioned her, and when the others spoke of her, she would be dumb. Good and self-sacrificing as she was in all other respects, on this point she was hard as a stone.

To Lars Peter's good-natured mind this hatred was a mystery. However much he tried to reconcile her, in the end he had to give up.

”Look and see if there's anything you want for the house,” said he.

”I want a packet of salt, the stuff they have at the grocer's is too coa.r.s.e to put on the table. And I must have a little spice. I'm going to try making a cake myself, bought cakes get dry so quickly.”

”D'you think you can?” said Lars Peter admiringly.

”There's more to be got,” Ditte continued undisturbed, ”but I'd better write it down; or you'll forget half the things like you did last time.”

”Ay, that's best,” answered Lars Peter meekly. ”My memory's not as good as it used to be. I don't know--I used to do hundreds of errands without forgetting one. Maybe 'tis with your mother. And then belike--a man gets old. Grandfather, he could remember like a printed book, to the very last.”

Ditte got up quickly and shook out her frock.

”There!” said she with a yawn. They put the rags in sacks and tied them up.

”This'll fetch a little money,” said Lars Peter dragging the sacks to the door, where heaps of old iron and other metals lay in readiness to be taken to the town. ”And what's the time now?--past six. Ought to be daylight soon.”

As Ditte opened the door the frosty air poured in. In the east, over the lake, the skies were green, with a touch of gold--it was daybreak. In the openings in the ice the birds began to show signs of life. It was as if the noise from the Crow's Nest had ushered in the day for them, group after group began screaming and flew towards the sea.

”It'll be a fine day,” said Lars Peter as he dragged out the cart.

”There ought to be a thaw soon.” He began loading the cart, while Ditte went in to light the fire for the coffee.

As Lars Peter came in, the flames from the open fireplace were flickering towards the ceiling, the room was full of a delicious fragrance, coffee and something or other being fried. Kristian was kneeling in front of the fire, feeding it with heather and dried sticks, and Ditte stood over a spluttering frying-pan, stirring with all her might. The two little ones sat on the end of the bench watching the operations with glee, the reflection of the fire gleaming in their eyes. The daylight peeped in hesitatingly through the frozen window-panes.

”Come along, father!” said Ditte, putting the frying-pan on the table on three little wooden supports. ”'Tis only fried potatoes, with a few slices of bacon, but you're to eat it all yourself!”

Lars Peter laughed and sat down at the table. He soon, however, as was his wont, began giving some to the little ones; they got every alternate mouthful. They stood with their faces over the edge of the table, and wide open mouths--like two little birds. Kristian had his own fork, and stood between his father's knees and helped himself.

Ditte stood against the table looking on, with a big kitchen knife in her hand.

”Aren't you going to have anything?” asked Lars Peter, pus.h.i.+ng the frying-pan further on to the table.

”There's not a sc.r.a.p more than you can eat yourself; we'll have something afterwards,” answered Ditte, half annoyed. But Lars Peter calmly went on feeding them. He did not enjoy his food when there were no open mouths round him.