Ditte: Girl Alive!

The old nag took its own time, and Lars Peter Hansen had no objection. He sat the whole time lightly touching it with his whip, a habit of his, and one without which the horse could not proceed. Should he stop for one moment, while pointing with his whip at the landscape, it would toss its head with impatience and look back—greatly to Ditte's enjoyment.

"Can't it gallop at all?" asked she, propping herself up between his knees.

"Rather, just you wait and see!" answered Lars Peter Hansen proudly. He pulled in the reins, but the nag only stopped, turned round, and looked at him with astonishment. For each lash of the whip, it threw up its tail and sawed the air with its head. Ditte's little body tingled with enjoyment.

"'Tisn't in the mood today," said Lars Peter Hansen, when he had at last got it into its old trot again. "It thinks it's a fraud to expect it to gallop, when it's been taking such long paces all the time."

"Did it say that?" asked Ditte, her eyes traveling from the one to the other.

"That's what it's supposed to mean. It's not far wrong."

Long paces it certainly did take—about that there was no mistake—but never two of equal length, and the cart was rolling in a zigzag all the time. What a funny horse it was. It looked as if it was made of odd parts, so bony and misshapen was it. No two parts matched, and its limbs groaned and creaked with every movement.

They drove past the big estate, where the squire lived, over the common, and still further out into the country which Granny had never seen before.

"But you can't see it now either," corrected Ditte pedantically.

"Oh, you always want to split hairs, 'course I can see it! When I hear you two speak, I see everything quite plainly. 'Tis a gift of God, to live through all this in my old days. But I smell something sweet, what is it?"

"Maybe 'tis the fresh water, Granny," said Lars Peter. "Two or three miles down to the left is the big lake. Granny has a sharp nose for anything that's wet." He chuckled over his little joke.

"'Tis water folks can drink without harm," said Maren thoughtfully; "Sören's told me about it. We were going to take a trip down there fishing for eels, but we never did. Ay, they say 'tis a pretty sight over the water to see the glare of the fires on the summer nights."

In between Lars Peter told them about conditions in his home. It was not exactly the wedding they were going to, for they had married about nine months ago—secretly. "'Twas done in a hurry," he apologetically explained, "or you two would have been there."

Maren became silent; she had looked forward to being present at the wedding of one of her girls at least, and nothing had come of it. Otherwise, it was a lovely trip.

"Have you any little ones then?" she asked shortly after.

"A boy," answered Lars Peter, "a proper little monkey—the image of his mother!" He was quite enthusiastic at the thought of the child. "Sörine's expecting another one soon," he added quietly.

"You're getting on," said Maren. "How is she?"

"Not quite so well this time. 'Tis the heartburn, she says."

"Then 'twill be a long-haired girl," Maren declared definitely. "And well on the way she must be, for the hair to stick in the mother's throat."

It was a beautiful September day. Everything smelt of mold, and the air was full of moisture, which could be seen as crystal drops over the sunlit land; a blue haze hung between the trees sinking to rest in the undergrowth, so that meadow and moor looked like a glimmering white sea.

Ditte marveled at the endlessness of the world. Constantly something new could be seen: forests, villages, churches; only the end of the world, which she expected every moment to see and put an end to everything, failed to appear. To the south some towers shone in the sun; it was a king's palace, said her father—her little heart mounted to her throat when he said that. And still further ahead——

"What's that I smell now?" Granny suddenly said, sniffing the air. "'Tis salt! We must be near the sea."

"Not just what one would call near, 'tis over seven miles away. Can you really smell the sea?"

Ay, ay, no-one need tell Maren that they neared the sea; she had spent all her life near it and ought to know. "And what sea is that?" asked she.

"The same as yours," answered Lars Peter.

"That's little enough to drive through the country for," said Maren laughingly.

And then they were at the end of their journey. It was quite a shock to them, when the nag suddenly stopped and Lars Peter sprang down from the cart. "Now, then," said he, lifting them down. Sörine came out with the boy in her arms; she was big and strong and had rough manners.

Ditte was afraid of this big red woman, and took refuge behind Granny. "She doesn't know you, that's why," said Maren, "she'll soon be all right."

But Sörine was angry. "Now, no more nonsense, child," said she, dragging her forward. "Kiss your mother at once."

Ditte began to howl, and tore herself away from her. Sörine looked as if she would have liked to use a parent's privilege and punish the child then and there. Her husband came between by snatching the child from her and placing her on the back of the horse. "Pat the kind horse and say thank you for the nice drive," said he. Thus he quieted Ditte, and carried her to Sörine. "Kiss mother," he said, and Ditte put forth her little mouth invitingly. But now Sörine refused. She looked at the child angrily, and went to get water for the horse.

Sörine had killed a couple of chickens in their honor, and on the whole made them comfortable, as far as their food and drink went; but there was a lack of friendliness which made itself felt. She had always been cold and selfish, and had not improved with years. By the next morning old Maren saw it was quite time for them to return home, and against this Sörine did not demur. After dinner Lars Peter harnessed the old nag, lifted them into the cart, and off they set homewards, relieved that it was over. Even Lars Peter was different out in the open to what he was at home. He sang and cracked jokes, while home he was quiet and said little.

They were thankful to be home again in the hut on the Naze. "Thank the Lord, 'tis not your mother we've to look to for our daily bread," said Granny, when Lars Peter Hansen had taken leave; and Ditte threw her arms round the old woman's neck and kissed her. Today she realized fully Granny's true worth.

It had been somewhat of a disappointment. Sörine was not what they had expected her to be, and her home was not up to much. As far as Granny found out from Ditte's description, it was more like a mud-hut, which had been given the name of dwelling-house, barn, etc. In no way could it be compared with the hut on the Naze.

But the drive had been beautiful.

CHAPTER XII
The Rag And Bone Man

All who knew Lars Peter Hansen agreed that he was a comical fellow. He was always in a good temper, and really there was no reason why he should be—especially where he was concerned. He belonged to a race of rag and bone men, who as far back as any one could remember, had traded in what others would not touch, and had therefore been given the name of rag and bone folk. His father drove with dogs and bought up rags and bones and other unclean refuse; when a sick or tainted animal had to be done away with he was always sent for. He was a fellow who never minded what he did, and would bury his arms up to the elbows in the worst kind of carrion, and then go straight to his dinner without even rinsing his fingers in water; people declared that in the middle of the night he would go and dig up the dead animals and strip them of their skin. His father, it was said, had gone as a boy to give his uncle a helping hand. As an example of the boy's depravity, it was said that when the rope would not tighten round the neck of a man who was being hung, he would climb up the gallows, drop down on to the unfortunate man's shoulder, and sit there.

There was not much to inherit, and there was absolutely nothing to be proud of. Lars Peter had probably felt this, for when quite young he had turned his back on the home of his childhood. He crossed the water and tried for work in North Sea land—his ambition was to be a farmer. He was a steady and respectable fellow, and as strong as a horse, any farmer would willingly employ him.

But if he thought he could run away from things, he was mistaken. Rumors of his origin followed faithfully at his heels, and harmed him at every turn. He might just as well have tried to fly from his own shadow.

Fortunately it did not affect him much. He was good-natured—wherever he had got it from—there was not a bad thought in his mind. His strength and trustworthiness made up for his low origin, so that he was able to hold his own with other young men; it even happened, that a well-to-do girl fell in love with his strength and black hair, and wanted him for a husband. In spite of her family's opposition they became engaged; but very soon she died, so he did not get hold of her money.

So unlucky was he in everything, that it seemed as if the sins of his fathers were visited upon him. But Lars Peter took it as the way of the world. He toiled and saved, till he had scraped together sufficient money to clear a small piece of land on the Sand—and once again looked for a wife. He met a girl from one of the fishing-hamlets; they took to each other, and he married her.

There are people, upon whose roof the bird of misfortune always sits flapping its black wings. It is generally invisible to all but the inmates of the house; but it may happen, that all others see it, except those whom it visits.

Lars Peter was one of those whom people always watched for something to happen. To his race stuck the two biggest mysteries of all—the blood and the curse; that he himself was good and happy made it no less exciting. Something surely was in store for him; every one could see the bird of misfortune on his roof.

He himself saw nothing, and with confidence took his bride home. No one told him that she had been engaged to a sailor, who was drowned; and anyway, what good would it have done? Lars Peter was not the man to be frightened away by the dead, he was at odds with no man. And no one can escape his fate.

They were as happy together as any two human beings can be; Lars Peter was good to her, and when he had finished his own work, would help her with the milking, and carry water in for her. Hansine was happy and satisfied; every one could see she had got a good husband. The bird that lived on their roof could be none other than the stork, for before long Hansine confided in Lars Peter that she was with child.

It was the most glorious news he had ever had in his life, and if he had worked hard before he did even more so now. His evenings were spent in the woodshed; there was a cradle to be made, and a rocking-chair, and small wooden shoes to be carved. As he worked he would hum, something slightly resembling a melody, but always the same tune; then suddenly Hansine would come running out throwing herself into his arms. She had become so strange under her pregnancy, she could find no rest, and would sit for hours with her thoughts far away—as if listening to distant voices—and could not be roused up again. Lars Peter put it down to her condition, and took it all good-humoredly. His even temperament had a soothing effect upon her, and she was soon happy again. But at times she was full of anxiety, and would run out to him in the fields, almost beside herself. It was almost impossible to persuade her to return to the house, he only succeeded after promising to keep within sight. She was afraid of one thing or another at home, but when he urged her to tell him the reason, she would look dumbly at him.

After the child's birth, she was her old self again. Their delight was great in the little one, and they were happier even than before.

But this strange phase returned when she again became pregnant, only in a stronger degree. There were times, when her fear forced her out of the house, and she would run into the fields, wring her hands in anguish. The distracted husband would fetch the screaming child to her, thus tempting her home again. This time she gave in and confided in him, that she had been engaged to a sailor, who had made her promise that she would remain faithful, if anything happened to him at sea.

"Did he never come back then?" asked Lars Peter slowly.

Hansine shook her head. And he had threatened to return and claim her, if she broke her word. He had said, he would tap on the trap-door in the ceiling.

"Did you promise of your own free will?" Lars Peter said ponderously.

No, Hansine thought he had pressed her.

"Then you're not bound by it," said he. "My family, maybe, are not much to go by, scum of the earth as we are. But my father and my grandfather always used to say, there's no need to fear the dead; they were easier to get away from than the living." She sat bending over the babe, which had cried itself to sleep on her knees, and Lars Peter stood with his arms round her shoulder, softly rocking her backwards and forwards, as he tried to talk her to reason. "You must think of the little one here—and the other little one to come! The only thing which can't be forgiven, is unkindness to those given to us."

Hansine took his hand and pressed it against her tearful eyes. Then rising herself she put the child to bed; she was calm now.

The rag and bone man had no superstition of any kind, or fear either, it was the only bright touch in the darkness of his race that they possessed; this property caused them to be outcasts—and decided their trade. Those who are not haunted, haunt others.

The only curse he knew, was the curse of being an outcast and feared; and this, thank the Lord, had been removed where he was concerned. He did not believe in persecution from a dead man. But he understood the serious effect it had upon Hansine, and was much troubled on her account. Before going to bed, he took down the trap-door and hid it under the roof.

Thus they had children one after the other, and with it trouble and depression. Instead of becoming better it grew worse with each one; and as much as Lars Peter loved his children, he hoped each one would be the last. The children themselves bore no mark of having been carried under a heart full of fear. They were like small shining suns, who encircled him all day long from the moment they could move. They added enjoyment to his work, and as each new one made its appearance, he received it as a gift of God. His huge fists entirely covered the newly born babe, when handed to him by the midwife—looking in its swaddling clothes like the leg of a boot—as he lifted it to the ceiling. His voice in its joy was like the deep chime of a bell, and the babe's head rolled from side to side, while blinking its eyes at the light. Never had any one been so grateful for children, wife and everything else as Lars Peter. He was filled with admiration for them all, it was a glorious world.

He did not exactly make headway on his little farm. It was poor land, and Lars Peter was said to be unlucky. Either he lost an animal or the crop was spoiled by hail. Other people kept an account of these accidents, Lars Peter himself had no feeling of being treated badly. On the contrary he was thankful for his farm, and toiled patiently on it. Nothing affected him.

When Hansine was to have her fifth child, she was worse than ever. She had made him put up the trap-door again, on the pretense that she could not stay in the kitchen for the draught, and she would be nowhere else but there—she was waiting for the tap. She complained no longer nor on the whole was she anxious either. It was as if she had learned to endure what could not be evaded; she was absent-minded, and Lars Peter had the sad feeling that she no longer belonged to him. In the night he would suddenly realize that she was missing from his side—and would find her in the kitchen stiff with cold. He carried her back to bed, soothing her like a little child, and she would fall asleep on his breast.

Her condition was such, that he never dared go from home, and leave her alone with the children; he had to engage a woman to keep an eye on her, and look after the house. She now neglected everything and looked at the children as if they were the cause of her trouble.

One day when he was taking a load of peat to town, an awful thing happened. What Hansine had been waiting for so long, now actually took place. She sent the woman, who was supposed to be with her, away on some excuse or other; and when Lars Peter returned, the animals were bellowing and every door open. There was no sign of wife or children. The poultry slipped past him, as he went round calling. He found them all in the well. It was a fearful sight to see the mother and four children lying in a row, first on the cobble-stoned yard, wet and pitiful, and afterwards on the sitting-room table dressed for burial. Without a doubt the sailor had claimed his right! The mother had jumped down last, with the youngest in her arms; they found her like this, tightly clasping the child, though she had not deserved it.

Every one was deeply shocked by this dreadful occurrence. They would willingly have given him a comforting and helping hand now; but it seemed that nothing could be done to help him in his trouble. He did not easily accept favors.

He busied himself round and about the dead, until the day of the funeral. No one saw him shed a single tear, not even when the earth was thrown on to the coffins, and people wondered at his composure; he had clung so closely to them. He was probably one of those who were cursed with inability to cry, thought the women.

After the funeral, he asked a neighbor to look after his animals; he had to go to town, said he. With that he disappeared, and for two years he was not seen; it was understood that he had gone to sea. The farm was taken over by the creditors; there was no more than would pay what he owed, so that at all events, he did not lose anything by it.

One day he suddenly cropped up again, the same old Lars Peter, prepared, like Job, to start again from the beginning. He had saved a little money in the last two years, and bought a partly ruined hut, a short distance north of his former farm. With the hut went a bit of marsh, and a few acres of poor land, which had never been under the plow. He bought a few sheep and poultry, put up an outhouse of peat and reeds taken from the marsh—and settled himself in. He dug peat and sold it, and when there was a good catch of herrings, would go down to the nearest fishing hamlet with his wheelbarrow and buy a load, taking them from hut to hut. He preferred to barter them, taking in exchange old metal, rags and bones, etc. It was the trade of his race he took up again, and although he had never practised it before, he fell into it quite easily. One day he took home a big bony horse, which he had got cheap, because no-one else had any use for it; another day he brought Sörine home. Everything went well for him.

He had met Sörine at some gathering down in one of the fishing huts, and they quickly made a match of it. She was tired of her place and he of being alone; so they threw in their lot together.

He was out the whole day long, and often at night too. When the fishing season was in full swing, he would leave home at one or two o'clock in the night, to be at the hamlet when the first boats came in. On these occasions Sörine stayed up to see that he did not oversleep himself. This irregular life came as naturally to her as to him, and she was a great help to him. So now once more he had a wife, and one who could work too. He possessed a horse, which had no equal in all the land—and a farm! It was not what could be called an estate, the house was built of hay, mud and sticks; people would point laughingly at it as they passed. Lars Peter alone was thankful for it.

He was a satisfied being—rather too much so, thought Sörine. She was of a different nature, always straining forward, and pushing him along so that her position might be bettered. She was an ambitious woman. When he was away, she managed everything; and the first summer helped him to build a proper outhouse, of old beams and bricks, which she made herself by drying clay in the sun. "Now we've a place for the animals just like other people," said she, when it was finished. But her voice showed that she was not satisfied.

At times Lars Peter Hansen would suggest that they ought to take Granny and Ditte to live with them. "They're so lonely and dull," said he, "and the Lord only knows where they get food from."

But this Sörine would not hear of. "We've enough to do without them," answered she sharply, "and Mother's not in want, I'm sure. She was always clever at helping herself. If they come here, I'll have the money paid for Ditte. 'Tis mine by right."

"They'll have eaten that up long ago," said Lars Peter.

But Sörine did not think so; it would not be like her father or her mother. She was convinced that her mother had hidden it somewhere or other. "If she would only sell the hut, and give the money to us," said she. "Then we could build a new house."

"Much wants more!" answered Lars Peter smilingly. In his opinion the house they lived in was quite good enough. But he was a man who thought anything good enough for him, and nothing too good for others. If he were allowed to rule they would soon end in the workhouse!

So Lars Peter avoided the question, and after Granny's visit, and having seen her and Sörine together, he understood they would be best apart. They did not come to his home again, but when he was buying up in their part of the country, he would call in at the hut on the Naze and take a cup of coffee with them. He would then bring a paper of coffee and some cakes with him, so as not to take them unawares, and had other small gifts too. These were days of rejoicing in the little hut. They longed for him, from one visit to another, and could talk of very little else. Whenever there were sounds of wheels, Ditte would fly to the window, and Granny would open wide her sightless eyes. Ditte gathered old iron from the shore as a surprise for her father; and when he drove home, she would go with him as far as the big hill, behind which the sun went down.

Lars Peter said nothing of these visits when he got home.

CHAPTER XIII
Ditte Has A Vision

Before losing her sight Maren had taught Ditte to read, which came in very useful now. They never went to church; their clothes were too shabby, and the way too long. Maren was not particularly zealous in her attendance, a life-long experience had taught her to take what the parson said with a grain of salt. But on Sundays, when people streamed past on their way to church, they were both neatly dressed, Ditte with a clean pinafore and polished wooden shoes, and Granny with a stringed cap. Then Granny would be sitting in the armchair at the table, spectacles on her nose and the Bible in front of her, and Ditte standing beside her reading the scriptures for the day. In spite of her blindness, Maren insisted upon wearing her spectacles and having the holy book in front of her, according to custom, otherwise it was not right.

Ditte was nearly of school age, but Maren took no notice of it, and kept her home. She was afraid of the child not getting on with the other children—and could not imagine how she herself could spare her the whole day long. But at the end of six months they were found out, and Maren was threatened, that unless the child was sent to school, she would be taken from her altogether.

Having fitted out Ditte as well as she could, she sent her off with a heavy heart. The birth certificate she purposely omitted giving her; as it bore in the corner the fateful: born out of wedlock. Maren could not understand why an innocent child should be stamped as unclean; the child had enough to fight against without that. But Ditte returned with strict injunctions to bring the certificate the next day, and Maren was obliged to give it to her. It was hopeless to fight against injustice.

Maren knew well that magistrates were no institution of God's making—she had been born with this knowledge! They only oppressed her and her kind; and with this end in view used their own hard method, which was none of God's doing at all. He, on the contrary, was a friend of the poor; at least His only son, who was sitting on His right hand, whispered good things of the poor, and it was reasonable to expect that He would willingly help. But what did it help when the mighty ones would have it otherwise? It was the squire and his like, who had the power! It was towards them the parson turned when preaching, letting the poor folks look after themselves, and towards them the deacon glanced when singing. It was all very fine for them, with the magistrate carrying their trains, and opening their carriage door, with a peasant woman always ready to lay herself on all fours to prevent them wetting their feet as they stepped in. No "born out of wedlock" on their birth certificate; although one often might question their genuineness!

"But why does the Lord let it be like that?" asked Ditte wonderingly.

"He has to, or there'd be no churches built nor no fuss made of Him," answered Maren. "Grandfather Sören always said, that the Lord lived in the pockets of the mighty, and it seems as if he's right."

Ditte now went three times a week to school, which lay an hour's journey away, over the common. She went together with the other children from the hamlet, and got on well with them.

Children are thoughtless, but not wicked; this they learn from their elders. They had only called after her what they had heard at home; it was their parents' gossip and judgment they had repeated. They meant nothing by it; Ditte, who was observant in this respect, soon found out that they treated each other just in the same way. They would shout witch's brat, at her one minute and the next be quite friendly; they did not mean to look down upon her. This discovery took the sting from the abusive word—fortunately she was not sensitive. And the parents no longer, in superstition, warned their children against her; the time when Maren rode about as a witch was entirely forgotten. Now she was only a poor old woman left alone with an illegitimate child.

To the school came children just as far in the opposite direction, from the neighborhood of Sand. And it happened, that from them Maren and Ditte could make inquiries about Sörine and Lars Peter. They had not seen Ditte's father for some time, and he might easily have met with an accident, being on the roads night and day in all sorts of weather. It was fortunate that Ditte met children from those parts, who could assure her that all was well. Sörine had never been any good to her mother, although she was her own flesh and blood.

One day Ditte came home with the news that she was to go to her parents; one of the children had brought the message.

Old Maren began to shake, so that her knitting needles clinked.

"But they said they didn't want you!" she broke out, her face quivering.

"Yes, but now they want me—you see, I've to help with the little ones," answered Ditte proudly, gathering her possessions together and putting them on the table. Each time she put a thing down was like a stab to the old woman; then she would comfort and stroke Granny's shaking hand, which was nothing but blue veins. Maren sat dumbly knitting; her face was strangely set and dead-looking.

"Of course I'll come home and see you; but then you must take it sensibly. Can't you understand that I couldn't stay with you always? I'll bring some coffee when I come, and we'll have a lovely time. But you must promise not to cry, 'cause your eyes can't stand it."

Ditte stood talking in a would-be wise voice, as she tied up her things.

"And now I must go, or I shan't get there till night, and then mother will be angry." She said the word "mother" with a certain reverence as if it swept away all objections. "Good-by, dear, dear Granny!" She kissed the old woman's cheek and hurried off with her bundle.

As soon as the door had closed on her Maren began crying, and calling for her; in a monotonous undertone she poured out all her troubles, sorrow and want and longing for death. She had had so many heavy burdens and had barely finished with one when another appeared. Her hardships had cut deeply—most of them; and it did her good to live through them again and again. She went on for some time, and would have gone on still longer had she not suddenly felt two arms round her neck and a wet cheek against her own. It was the mischievous child, who had returned, saying that after all she was not leaving her.

Ditte had gone some distance, as far as the baker's, who wondered where she was going with the big parcel and stopped her. Her explanation, that she was going home to her parents, they refused to believe; her father had said nothing about it when the baker had met him at the market the day before, indeed he had sent his love to them. Ditte stood perplexed on hearing all this. A sudden doubt flashed through her mind; she turned round with a jerk—quick as she was in all her movements—and set off home for the hut on the Naze. How it had all happened she did not bother to think, such was her relief at being allowed to return to Granny.

Granny laughed and cried at the same time, asked questions and could make no sense of it.

"Aren't you going at all, then?" she broke out, thanking God, and hardly able to believe it.

"Of course I'm not going. Haven't I just told you, the baker said I wasn't to."

"Ay, the baker, the baker—what's he got to do with it? You'd got the message to go."

Ditte was busily poking her nose into Granny's cheek.

Maren lifted her head: "Hadn't you, child? Answer me!"

"I don't know, Granny," said Ditte, hiding her face against her.

Granny held her at an arm's length: "Then you've been playing tricks, you bad girl! Shame on you, to treat my poor old heart like this." Maren began sobbing again and could not stop; it had all come so unexpectedly. If only one could get to the bottom of it; but the child had declared that she had not told a lie. She was quite certain of having had the message, and was grieved at Granny not believing her. She never told an untruth when it came to the point, so after all must have had the message. On the other side the child herself said that she was not going—although the baker's counter orders carried no authority. They had simply stopped her, because her expedition seemed so extraordinary. It was beyond Maren—unless the child had imagined it all.

Ditte kept close to the old woman, constantly taking hold of her chin. "Now I know how sorry you'll be to lose me altogether," she said quietly.

Maren raised her face: "Do you think you'll soon be called away?"

Ditte shook her head so vehemently that Granny felt it.

Old Maren was deep in thought; she had known before that the child understood, that it was bound to come.

"Whatever it may be," said she after a few moments, "you've behaved like the great man I once read about, who rehearsed his own funeral—with four black horses, hearse and everything. All his servants had to pretend they were the procession, dressed in black, they had even to cry. He himself was watching from an attic window, and when he saw the servants laughing behind their handkerchiefs instead of crying, he took it so to heart that he died. 'Tis dangerous for folks to make fun of their own passing away—wherever they may be going!"

"I wasn't making fun, Granny," Ditte assured her again.

From that day Maren went in daily dread of the child being claimed by her parents. "My ears are burning," she often said, "maybe 'tis your mother talking of us."

Sörine certainly did talk of them in those days. Ditte was now old enough to make herself useful; her mother would not mind having her home to look after the little ones. "She's nearly nine years old now and we'll have to take her sooner or later," she explained.

Lars Peter demurred; he thought it was a shame to take her from Granny. "Let's take them both then," said he.

Sörine refused to listen, and nagged for so long that she overcame his opposition.

"We've been expecting you," said Maren when at last he came to fetch the child. "We've known for long that you'd come on this errand."

"'Tisn't exactly with my good will. But in a way a mother has a right to her own child, and Sörine thinks she'd like to have her," answered Lars Peter. He wanted to smooth it down for both sides.

"I know you've done your best. Well, it can't be helped. And how's every one at home? There's another mouth to feed, I've heard."

"Ay, he's nearly six months old now." Lars Peter brightened up, as he always did when speaking of his children.

They got into the cart. "We shan't forget you, either of us," said Lars Peter huskily, while trying to get the old nag off.

Then the old woman stumbled in, they saw her feeling her way over the doorstep with her foot and closing the door behind her.

"'Tis lonely to be old and blind," said Lars Peter, lashing his whip as usual.

Ditte heard nothing; she was sitting with her face in one big smile. She was driving towards something new; she had no thought for Granny just then.

CHAPTER XIV
At Home With Mother

The rag and bone man's property—the Crow's Nest—stood a little way back from the road, and the piece up towards the road he had planted with willows, partly to hide the half-ruined abode, and partly to have material for making baskets during the winter, when there was little business to be done. The willows grew quickly, and already made a beautiful place for playing hide and seek. He made the house look as well as it could, with tar and whitewash, but miserable looking it ever would be, leaking and falling to pieces; it was the dream of Sörine's life, that they should build a new dwelling-house up by the road, using this as outhouse. The surroundings were desolate and barren, and a long way from neighbors. The view towards the northwest was shut off by a big forest, and on the opposite side was the big lake, which reflected all kinds of weather. On the dark nights could be heard the quacking of the ducks in the rushes on its banks, and on rainy days, boats would glide like shadows over it, with a dark motionless figure in the bow, the eel-fisher. He held his eel-fork slantingly in front of him, prodded the water sleepily now and then, and slid past. It was like a dream picture, and the whole lake was in keeping. When Ditte felt dull she would pretend that she ran down to the banks, hid herself in the rushes, and dream herself home to Granny. Or perhaps away to something still better; something unknown, which was in store for her somewhere or other. Ditte never doubted but that there was something special in reserve for her, so glorious that it was impossible even to imagine it.

In her play too, her thoughts would go seawards, and when her longing for Granny was too strong, she would run round the corner of the house and gaze over the wide expanse of water. Now she knew Granny's true worth.

She had not yet been down to the sea; as a matter of fact there was no time to play. At six o'clock in the morning, the youngest babe made himself heard, as regularly as clockwork, and she had to get up in a hurry, take him from his mother and dress him. Lars Peter would be at his morning jobs, if he had not already gone to the beach for fish. When he was at home, Sörine would get up with the children; but otherwise she would take a longer nap, letting Ditte do the heaviest part of the work for the day. Then her morning duties would be left undone, the two animals bellowed from the barn, the pigs squealed over their empty trough, and the hens flocked together at the hen-house door waiting to be let out. Ditte soon found out that her mother was more industrious when the father was at home than when he was out; then she would trail about the whole morning, her hair undone and an old skirt over her nightdress, and a pair of down-trodden shoes on her bare feet, while everything was allowed to slide.

Ditte thought this was a topsy-turvy world. She herself took her duties seriously, and had not yet been sufficiently with grown-up people to learn to shirk work. She washed and dressed the little ones. They were full of life, mischievous and unmanageable, and she had as much as she could do in looking after the three of them. As soon as they saw an opportunity, the two eldest would slip away from her, naked as they were; then she had to tie up the youngest while she went after them.

The days she went to school she felt as a relief. She had just time to get the children ready, and eat her porridge, before leaving. At the last moment her mother would find something or other, which had to be done, and she had to run the whole way.

She was often late, and was scolded for it, yet she loved going to school. She enjoyed sitting quietly in the warm schoolroom for hours at a stretch, resting body and mind; the lessons were easy, and the schoolmaster kind. He often let them run out for hours, when he would work in his field, and it constantly happened that the whole school helped him to gather in his corn or dig up his potatoes. This was a treat indeed. The children were like a flock of screaming birds, chattering, making fun and racing each other at the work. And when they returned, the schoolmaster's wife would give them coffee.

More than anything else Ditte loved the singing-class. She had never heard any one but Granny sing, and she only did it when she was spinning—to prevent the thread from being uneven, and the wheel from swinging, said she. It was always the same monotonous, gliding melody; Ditte thought she had composed it herself, because it was short or long according to her mood.

The schoolmaster always closed the school with a song, and the first time Ditte heard the full chorus, she burst into tears with emotion. She put her head on the desk, and howled. The schoolmaster stopped the singing and came down to her.

"She must have been frightened," said the girls nearest to her.

He comforted her, and she stopped crying. "Have you never heard singing before, child?" he asked wonderingly, when she had calmed down.

"Yes, the spinning-song," sniffed Ditte.

"Who sang it to you then?"

"Granny——" Ditte suddenly stopped and began to choke again, the thought of Granny was too much for her. "Granny used to sing it when she was spinning," she managed at last to say.

"That must be a good old Granny, you have. Do you love her?"

Ditte did not answer, but the face she turned to him was like sunshine after the storm.

"Will you sing us the spinning-song?"

Ditte looked from the one to the other; the whole class gazed breathlessly at her; she felt something was expected of her. She threw a hasty glance at the schoolmaster's face; then fixed her eyes on her desk and began singing in a delicate little voice, which vibrated with conflicting feelings; shyness, the solemnity of the occasion, and sorrow at the thought of Granny, who might now sit longing for her. Unconsciously she moved one foot up and down as she sang, as one who spins. One or two attempted to giggle, but one look from the master silenced them.

When she had finished her song, there was stillness for a few moments in the schoolroom.

"She thinks she's going to marry a prince," said one of the girls.

"And that she probably will!" answered the schoolmaster. "And then Granny can have all she wants," he added, stroking her hair.

Without knowing it, Ditte at one stroke had won both the master's and the other children's liking. She had sung to the whole class, quite alone, which none of the others dared do. The schoolmaster liked her for her fearlessness, and for some time shut his eyes whenever she was late. But one day it was too much for him, and he ordered her to stay in. Ditte began to cry.

"'Tis a shame," said the other girls, "she runs the whole way, and she's whipped if she's late home. Her mother stands every day at the corner of the house waiting for her—she's so strict."

"Then we'll have to get hold of your mother," said the schoolmaster. "This can't go on!" Ditte escaped staying in, but was given a note to take home.

This having no effect, the schoolmaster went with her home to speak to her mother. But Sörine refused to take any responsibility. If the child arrived late at school, it was simply because she loitered on the way. Ditte listened to her in amazement; she could not make out how her mother could look so undisturbed when telling such untruths.

Ditte, to help herself, now began acting a lie too. Each morning she seized the opportunity of putting the little Swiss clock a quarter of an hour forward. It worked quite well in the morning, so that she was in time for school; but she would be late in arriving home.

"You're taking a quarter of an hour longer on the road now," scolded her mother.

"We got out late today," lied Ditte, trying to copy her mother's unconcerned face, as she had seen it when she lied. Her heart was in her mouth, but all went well—wonderful to relate! How much wiser she was now! During the day she quietly put the clock back again.

One day, in the dusk, as she stood on the chair putting the clock back, her mother came behind her. Ditte threw herself down from the chair, quickly picking up little Povl from the floor, where he was crawling; in her fear, she tried to hide behind the little one. But her mother tore him from her, and began thrashing her.

Ditte had had a rap now and then, when she was naughty, but this was the first time she had been really whipped. She was like an animal, kicking and biting, and shrieking, so that it was all her mother could do to manage her. The three little ones' howls equaled hers.

When Sörine thought she had had enough, she dragged her to the woodshed and locked her in. "Lie there and howl, maybe it'll teach you not to try those tricks again!" she shouted, and went in. She was so out of breath that she had to sit down; that wicked child had almost got the better of her.

Ditte, quite beyond herself, went on screaming and kicking for some time. Her cries gradually quietened down to a despairing wail of: "Granny, Granny!" It was quite dark in the woodshed, and whenever she called for Granny, she heard a comforting rustling sound from the darkness at the back of the shed. She gazed confidently towards it, and saw two green fire-balls shining in the darkness, which came and went by turns. Ditte was not afraid of the dark. "Puss, puss," she whispered. The fire-balls disappeared, and the next moment she felt something soft touching her. And now she broke down again, this caress was too much for her, and she pitied herself intensely. Puss, little puss! There was after all one who cared for her! Now she would go home to Granny.

She got up, dazed and bruised, and felt her way to the shutter. When Sörine thought that she had been locked in long enough, and came to release her, she had vanished.

Ditte ran into the darkness, sobbing; it was cold and windy, and the rain was beating on her face. She wore no knickers under her dress—these her mother had taken for the little ones, together with the thick woollen vest Granny had knitted for her—the wet edge of her skirt cut her bare legs, which were swollen from the lash of the cane. But the silent rain did her good. Suddenly something flew up from beside her; she heard the sound of rushes standing rustling in the water—and knew that she had got away from the road. She collapsed, and crawled into the undergrowth, and lay shivering in a heap, like a sick puppy.

There she lay groaning without really having any more pain; the cold had numbed her limbs and deadened the smart. It was distress of soul which made her wince now and then; it was wrung by the emptiness and meaninglessness of her existence. She needed soothing hands, a mother first of all, who would fondle her—but she got only hard words and blows from that quarter. Yet it was expected that she should give what she herself missed most of all—a mother's long-suffering patience and tender care to the three tiresome little ones, who were scarcely more helpless than she was.

Her black despair little by little gave place to numbness. Hate and anger, feebleness and want, had all fought in her mind and worn her out. The cold did the rest, and she fell into a doze.

A peculiar, grinding, creaking and jolting noise came from the road. Only one cart in all the world could produce that sound. Ditte opened her eyes, and a feeling of joy went through her—her father! She tried to call, but no sound came, and each time she tried to rise her legs gave way under her. She crawled up with difficulty over the edge of the ditch, out into the middle of the road, and there collapsed.

As the nag neared that spot, it stopped, threw up its head, snorted, and refused to go on. Lars Peter jumped down and ran to the horse's head to see what was wrong; there he found Ditte, stiff with cold and senseless.

Under his warm driving cape she came to herself again, and life returned to the cold limbs. Lars Peter thawed them one by one in his huge fists. Ditte lay perfectly quiet in his arms; she could hear the beat of his great heart underneath his clothes, throb, throb! Each beat was like the soft nosing of some animal, and his deep voice sounded to her like an organ. His big hands, which took hold of so much that was hard and ugly, were the warmest she had ever known. Just like Granny's cheek—the softest thing in all the world—were they.

"Now we must get out and run a little," said the father suddenly. Ditte was unwilling to move, she was so warm and comfortable. There was no help for it however. "We must get the blood to run again," said he, lifting her out of the cart. Then they ran for some time by the side of the nag, which threw out its big hoofs in a jog-trot, so as not to be outdone.

"Shall we soon be home?" asked Ditte, when she was in the cart again, well wrapped up.

"Oh-h, there's a bit left—you've run seven miles, child! Now tell me what's the meaning of your running about like this."

Then Ditte told him about the school, the injustice she had had to bear, the whipping and everything. In between there were growls from Lars Peter, as he stamped his feet on the bottom of the cart—he could hardly tolerate to listen to this tale. "But you won't tell Sörine, will you?" she added with fear. "Mother, I mean," she hastily corrected herself.

"You needn't be afraid," was all he said.

He was silent for the rest of the journey, and was very slow in unharnessing; Ditte kept beside him. Sörine came out with a lantern and spoke to him, but he did not answer. She cast a look of fear at him and the child, hung up the lantern, and hurried in.

Soon after he came in, holding Ditte by the hand, her little hand shaking in his. His face was gray; in his right hand was a thick stick. Sörine fled from his glance; right under the clock; pressing herself into the corner, gazing at them with perplexity.

"Ay, you may well gaze at us," said he, coming forward—"'tis a child accusing you. What's to be done about it?" He had seated himself under the lamp, and lifting Ditte's frock, he carefully pressed his palm against the blue swollen weals, which smarted with the slightest touch. "It still hurts—you're good at thrashing! let's see if you're equally good at healing. Come and kiss the child, where you've struck her, a kiss for each stroke!"

He sat waiting. "Well——"

Sörine's face was full of disgust.

"Oh, you think your mouth's too good to kiss what your hand's struck." He reached out for the stick.

Sörine had sunk down on the ground, she put out her hands beseechingly. But he looked inexorably at her, not at all like himself. "Well——"

Sörine lingered a few moments longer, then on her knees went and kissed the child's bruised limbs.

Ditte threw her arms violently round her mother's neck. "Mother," said she.

But Sörine got up and went out to get the supper. She never looked at them the whole evening.

Lars Peter was his old self the next morning. He woke Sörine with a kiss as usual, humming as he dressed. Sörine still looked at him with malice, but he pretended not to notice it. It was quite dark, and as he sat eating his breakfast, with the lantern in front of him on the table, he kept looking at the three little ones, in bed. They were all in a heap—like young birds. "When Povl has to join them, we'll have to put two at each end," he said thoughtfully. "Better still, if we could afford another bed."

There was no answer from Sörine.

When ready to leave, he bent over Ditte, who lay like a little mother with the children in her arms. "That's a good little girl, you've given us," said he, straightening himself.

"She tells lies," answered Sörine from beside the fireplace.

"Then it's because she's had to. My family's not thought much of, Sörine—and maybe they don't deserve it either. But never a hand was laid on us children, I'll tell you. I remember plainly my father's death-bed, how he looked at his hands, and said: 'These have dealt with much, but never has the rag and bone man's hands been turned against the helpless!' I'd like to say that when my time comes, and I'd advise you to think of it too."

Then he drove away. Sörine put the lantern in the window, to act as a guide to him, and crept back to bed, but could not sleep. For the first time Lars Peter had given her something to think of. She had found that in him which she had never expected, something strange which warned her to be careful. A decent soul, she had always taken him for—just as the others. And how awful he could be in his rage—it made her flesh creep, when thinking of it. She certainly would be careful not to come up against him again.

CHAPTER XV
Rain And Sunshine

On the days when Ditte did not go to school, there were thousands of things for her to do. She had to look after the little ones, care for the sheep and hens too, and gather nettles in a sack for the pigs. At times Lars Peter came home early, having been unlucky in selling his fish. Then she would sit up with her parents until one or two o'clock in the night, cleaning the fish, to prevent it spoiling. Sörine was one of those people who fuss about without doing much. She could not bear the child resting for a moment, and drove her from one task to another. Often when Ditte went to bed, she was so tired that she could not sleep. Sörine had the miserable habit of making the day unhappy for the children. She was rough with them should they get in her way; and always left children's tears like streams of water behind her. When Ditte went to gather sticks, or pick berries, she always dragged the little ones with her, so as not to leave them to their mother's tender mercy. There were days when Sörine was not quite so bad—she was never quite happy and kind, but at other times she was almost mad with anger, and the only thing to do was to keep out of her way. Then they would all hide, and only appear when their father came home.

Sörine was careful not to strike Ditte, and sent her off to school in good time—she had no wish to see Lars Peter again as he was that evening. But she had no love for the child, she wanted to get on in life; it was her ambition to build a new dwelling-house, get more land and animals—and be on the same footing with the other women on the small farms round about. The child was a blot on her. Whenever she looked at Ditte, she would think: Because of that brat, all the other women look down on me!

The child certainly was a good worker, even Sörine grudgingly admitted it to Lars Peter. It was Ditte who made butter, first in a bottle, which had to be shaken, often by the hour, before the butter would come—and now in the new churn. Sörine herself could not stand the hard work of churning. Ditte gathered berries and sold them in the market, ran errands, fetched water and sticks, and looked after the sheep, carrying fat little Povl wherever she went. He cried if she left him behind, and she was quite crooked with carrying him.

Autumn was the worst time for the children. It was the herring season, and their father would stay down at the fishing hamlet—often for a month at a time—helping with the catch. Sörine was then difficult to get on with; the only thing which kept her within bounds was Ditte's threat of running away. There were not many men left in the neighborhood in the autumn, and Sörine went in daily dread of tramps. Should they knock at the door in the evening, she would let Ditte answer it.

Ditte was not afraid. This and her cleverness gave her moral power over her mother; she had no fear of answering her back now. She was quicker with her fingers than her mother, both in making baskets and brooms, and did better work too.

What money they made in this way, Sörine had permission to keep for herself. She never spent a penny of it, but put it by, shilling by shilling, towards building the new house. They must try hard to make enough, so that Lars Peter could work at home instead of hawking his goods on the road. As long as the people had the right to call him rag and bone man, it was natural they should show no respect. Land they must have, and for this, money was necessary.

Money! money! That word was always in Sörine's mind and humming in her ears. She scraped together shilling after shilling, and yet the end was far from being in sight, unless something unexpected happened. And what could happen to shorten the wearisome way to her goal, only one thing—that her mother should die. She had really lived long enough and been a burden to others. Sörine thought it was quite time she departed, but no such luck.

It happened that Lars Peter returned one day in the middle of the afternoon. The shabby turn-out could be seen from afar. The cart rocked with every turn of the wheels, creaking and groaning as it was dragged along. It was as if all the parts of the cart spoke and sang at once, and when the children heard the well-known noise along the road, they would rush out, full of excitement. The old nag, which grew more and more like a wandering bag of bones, snorted and puffed, and rumbled, as if all the winds from the four corners of the earth were locked in its belly. And Lars Peter's deep hum joined the happy chorus.

When the horse saw the little ones, it whinnied; Lars Peter raised himself from his stooping position and stopped singing, and the cart came to a standstill. He lifted them up in the air, all three or four together in a bunch, held them up to the sky for a moment, and put them into the cart as carefully as if they were made of glass. The one who had seen him first was allowed to hold the reins.

When Lars Peter came home and found Sörine in a temper and the house upside down, he was not disturbed at all, but soon cheered them all up. He always brought something home with him, peppermints for the children, a new shawl for mother—and perhaps love from Granny to Ditte, whispering it to her so that Sörine could not hear. His good humor was infectious; the children forgot their grievances, and even Sörine had to laugh whether she wanted to or not. And if the children were fond of him, so too were the animals. They would welcome him with their different cries and run to meet him; he could let the pig out and make it follow him in the funniest gallop round the field.

However late he was in returning, and however tired, he never went to bed without having first been the round to see that the animals wanted for nothing. Sörine easily forgot them and they were often hungry. Then the hens flew down from their perch on hearing his step, the pigs came out and grunted over their trough, and a soft back rubbed itself up against his legs—the cat.

Lars Peter brought joy with him home, and a happier man than he could hardly be found for miles. He loved his wife for what she was, more sharp than really clever. He admired her for her firmness, and thought her an exceedingly capable woman, and was truly thankful for the children she gave him, for those he was father to—and for Ditte. Perhaps if anything he cared most for her.

Such was Lars Peter's nature that he began where others ended. All his troubles had softened instead of hardening him; his mind involuntarily turned to what was neglected, perhaps it was because of this that people thought nothing throve for him.

His ground was sour and sandy, none but he would think of plowing it. No-one grudged him his wife, and most of the animals he had saved from being killed, on his trips round the farms. He could afford to be happy with his possessions, thinking they were better than what others had. He was jealous of no-one, and no exchange would tempt him.

On Sundays the horse had to rest, and it would not do either to go on his rounds that day. Therefore Lars Peter would creep up to the hayloft to have a sleep. He would sleep on until late in the afternoon, having had very little during the week, and Ditte had her work cut out to keep the little ones from him; they made as much noise as they possibly could, hoping to waken him so that he might play with them, but Ditte watched carefully, that he had his sleep in peace.

Twice a year they all drove to the market at Hilleröd, on top of the loaded cart. The children were put into the baskets which were stacked in the back of the cart, the brooms hung over the sides, under the seat were baskets of butter and eggs, and in front—under Lars' and Sörine's feet, were a couple of sheep tied up. These were the great events of the year, from which everything was dated.