Knutty nodded.
"That stabs me more than anything," he said. "He is like me, Knutty. I have taken most of my own sorrows out into the stillness of the night."
"Yes, kjaere," Knutty answered. "He is like you. It is a good thing for me that I am not going to live long enough to know his grown-up son. Three of exactly the same pattern—ak!—I couldn't stand that in one lifetime!"
They were sitting on Tante's verandah, where she had established herself with her writing-materials, her English dictionary, and the book which she was translating.
"Have I really been such a burden to you?" he said a little wistfully, playing with her pen.
"Ja, kjaere," she said, with a charming old smile. "You have been one of those heavy burdens which are the true joy of silly old women like myself."
And then she added:
"But for you, my spirit would be like a piece of dried fish in the Stabur. Things being as they are, it is much more like one of those tender fresh mountain-trout which Jens and Alan are going to catch for poor Bedstefar's funeral. So be of good cheer, Clifford. You have done me only good. All the same, three of you, no thank you! But I have always yearned over the first—and I find myself yearning over the second—yearning over that little chap! Ak, that metallic beast of a woman! I'd like to break up her mechanism."
Clifford rose.
"Knutty," he said, "I have not asked you what she said, because I want Alan to tell me himself. I am going to find him now."