"We'll wrap her up in the rug, and she can lie down in the cart and sleep as long as she likes."
"'Twill shake her all to pieces," said Isak, and carries her on. They cross the moors and get into the woods again.
"Ptro!" says Inger, and the horse stops. She takes the child from Isak, gets him to shift the chest and the sewing-machine, making a place for Leopoldine in the bottom of the cart. "Shaken? not a bit of it!"
Isak fixes things to rights, tucks his little daughter up in the rug, and lays his jacket folded under her head. Then off again.
Man and wife gossiping of this and that. The sun is up till late in the evening, and the weather warm.
"Oline," says Inger—"where does she sleep?"
"In the little room."
"Ho! And the boys?"
"They've their own bed in the big room. There's two beds there, just as when you went away."
"Looking at you now," said Inger, "I can see you're just as you were before. And those shoulders of yours, they've carried some burdens up along this way, but they've not grown the weaker by it, seems."