WIFE. God bless you! And I hope He will protect you from the friend that is always breaking his word and safe-conduct!
MONS. Don't open the old wounds, but let bygones be bygones.
WIFE. If you do that, and he won't, you can hardly call it a reconciliation. Take care!
MONS. The sound of that bell is really dreadful!
WIFE. So it is to my ears, because it always reminds me of the big Mary, which the bailiff took away. Do you remember when the Mary was cast out of the best refined copper and the whole town brought milk and cream to give the clay of the form more firmness—and then, when the melt was ready, we threw in one-half of our table silver to improve the tone? It was baptised at Candlemas and rung for the first time at the burial of my father.... And then it went to Herman Israel at Luebeck, who made coin out of it.
MONS. All that is perfectly true, but now it must be forgotten—or we shall never have peace.
BARBRO, their daughter, enters with a basket full of finely chopped spruce branches; she is dressed in black and white, and so are several younger children who follow her, also carrying baskets. All of them begin to spread the chopped spruce over the floor.
WIFE. [To MONS] Is there to be a funeral?
MONS. No, but not being the season, we couldn't get any leaves.
WIFE. I think the children might put off their mourning at least.