Aye, this was a winter.
Old Raastad’s two daughters were in the dairy making whey-cheese. The door was flung open, there was a rush of frosty air, and Peer stood there blinking his eyes.
“Huh! what smokers you two are!”
“Are we now?” And the red-haired one and the fair-haired one both giggled, and they looked at each other and nodded. This queer townsman-lodger of theirs never came near them that he didn’t crack jokes.
“By the way, Else, I dreamed last night that we were going to be married.”
Both the girls shrieked with delight at this.
“And Mari, you were married to the bailiff.”
“Oh my! That old creature down at Moen?”
“He was much older. Ninety years old he was.”
“Uf!—you’re always at your nonsense,” said the red-haired girl, stirring away at her huge, steaming cauldron.