Ingeborg said good-night and left the house.
The two old men upon the bench began to undress, with many sighs over their rheumatism and pains in their limbs. One of them, after taking off his trousers, sat down upon the edge of his bed and lighted his pipe before drawing off his stockings. The other was also in his drawers, and now crept cautiously in his clumsy slippers into the dairymaid’s little room, and seated himself upon the edge of her bed.
“Have you got enough on you at night?” he asked, as he struck a match upon his nether garments, and lighted his short pipe with a trembling hand.
“Oh yes!” said the dairymaid in a sleepy voice.
These two had been engaged, and had broken it off, and been engaged again, over and over again for pretty well a lifetime. For a couple of years they were not on friendly terms, and were each engaged to some one else; but then they became reconciled and engaged again, until things again went wrong, and so on. Since they had become pensioners, however, they had made peace and were good friends.
“Because you’re welcome to one of my sheepskins!” he said, looking at the bowl of his pipe and trying to make it draw.
“Did you ever hear such nonsense! And you would lie and shiver perhaps?” she said. “No; if I’m cold, I’ve only got to speak to the mistress.”
“Very well,” said the old man, rising and tucking her carefully up. He came in every evening before he went to bed to ask her if she wanted anything. It was a kind of good-night. Of late he had induced her to smoke, for then he could always do her some little service, such as to clean her pipe and cut up the tobacco for her. But now, without saying good-night, he slouched away and went to bed.
“You’ve forgotten to put out the lamp,” said the blind man. He could not see it, but felt its light upon him.
After the lamp was put out, the three old men lay and yawned audibly for some time, until there came from the little room a yawn so loud that the three men could hear it. This was their good-night to one another.