It seems to me I can hear his voice yet, mingled with the noisy blasts of the wind over the dark moor where the fire still crackled and snapped in the heather.
And it was all our fault! Such hard work as we had had, and such grand fun as we had expected to have! It would be best for me to run away at once, I thought; but no, it would be a shame to do that. Midsen held Karsten and Andreas as in a vise so that they should not run away; and it was just as much my fault as theirs.
I sat on a stone and cried hard; Andreas choked and cried and dried his eyes on his jacket-sleeves, first one and then the other; but Karsten fairly bellowed—his way of crying.
The men kept on tearing up the heather so as to stop the fire, and scolding us constantly. I wonder whether you can possibly imagine how perfectly horrid it was. I shall never again have a bonfire of my own, if I live to be a hundred years old.
Suddenly I felt a raindrop—then another and another—and then it began to pour.
“Well, you may thank the Lord for His merciful judgment,” said Midsen. “Now the fire will be put out by the rain.”
And what do you think? I cried harder than ever then for joy; and in my heart I thanked God over and over that He had let the rain come just at that time.
When the fire was entirely out and we trudged down the hill, it was almost pitch-dark; water trickled from my clothes, my eyes smarted from the smoke, my hands were scorched, but the worst was, I was unspeakably afraid of what Father would say.
What he said and what came afterward, I won’t tell of in detail for it was altogether too horrid. I was dreadfully, dreadfully sorry I had not asked Mother about having a bonfire, I can tell you.
Father had to pay Mrs. Petersen for her old bedstead. What do you think of that! Probably he had to pay extra for the dirt on it.