The porridge was scorched, it could not be gainsaid; but how good it tasted nevertheless!
VIII.
IT was a genuine Christmas Eve—still and clear. White, fleecy clouds swept like angels’ wings past the bright stars and the moon which, risen late, gleamed upon the fresh snow and out across the dark blue fjord toward the sea.
Over the whole town floated a faint odor of roast goose and punch; and like distant psalms sounded the light snores of all who were sleeping near with overloaded stomachs.
The little folks slept soundly, tired out with good fortune, and dreamed of tin soldiers and candy toys.
The grown folks slept uneasily—tossed here and there, and thought a fat goose was sitting on their breasts and was rubbing lard under their noses.
But Loppen slept best of all.
“I think I might be left in peace Christmas Eve,” said Dr. Bentzen, testily, as he came out of the prison. “It was only what I could have told you in advance, that she would drink herself to death; and then any child could see that she was dead. Another time you can wait till morning, Hansen.”