Peer went out again. The girls were hardly out of their teens, and yet their faces seemed set already and stiff with earnestness. And whenever Peer had managed to set them laughing unawares, they seemed frightened the next minute at having been betrayed into doing something there was no profit in.
Peer strode about in the crackling snow with his fur cap drawn down over his ears. Jotunheim itself lay there up north, breathing an icy-blue cold out over the world.
And he? Was he to go on like this, growing hunchbacked under a burden that weighed and bowed him down continually? Why the devil could he not shake it off, break away from it, and kick out bravely at his evil fate?
“Peer,” asked Merle, standing in the kitchen, “what did you think of giving the children for a Christmas present?”
“Oh, a palace each, and a horse to ride, of course. When you’ve more money than you know what to do with, the devil take economy. And what about you, my girl? Any objection to a couple of thousand crowns’ worth of furs?”
“No, but seriously. The children haven’t any ski—nor a hand-sleigh.”
“Well, have you the money to buy them? I haven’t.”
“Suppose you tried making them yourself?”
“Ski?” Peer turned over the notion, whistling. “Well, why not? And a sleigh? We might manage that. But what about little Asta?—she’s too little for that sort of thing.”
“She hasn’t any bed for her doll.”