He sighed, greatly down-hearted, and shoved his plate from him.
Tears burst from Inger-Johanna's eyes.
No one would have any more.
Now he walked and whistled and gazed on the floor.
It was a pity to see how unhappy father was.
"You must write every month, child—at length and about everything—do you hear?—large and small, whatever you are thinking of, so that your father may have something to take pleasure in," Ma admonished, while they were clearing off the table. "And listen now, Inger-Johanna," she continued when they were alone in the pantry: "If it is so that the governor's wife wants to read your letters, then put a little cross by the signature. But if there is anything the matter, tell it to old Aunt Alette out in the bishop's mansion; then I shall know it when Great-Ola is in for the city load. You know your father can bear so little that is disagreeable."
"The governor's wife read what I write to you and father! That I will defy her to do."
"You must accommodate yourself to her wishes, child. You can do it easily when you try, and your aunt is extremely kind and good to those she likes, when she has things her own way. You know how much may depend on her liking you, and—you understand—getting a little fond of you. She has certainly not asked you there without thinking of keeping you in the place of a daughter."
"Any one else's daughter? Take me from you and father? No, in that case I would rather never go there."