A little while after she heard herself whispering: "Oh, you … you're just the same—the same as ever!"
* * * * *
And after that halt they drove on again, and Inger sat up, holding the reins. "I've brought a paper of coffee too," she said. "But you can't have any this evening, for it's not roasted yet."
"'Tis more than's needed this evening and all," said he.
An hour later the sun goes down, and it grows colder. Inger gets down to walk. Together they tuck the rug closer about Leopoldine, and smile to see how soundly she can sleep. Man and wife talk together again on their way. A pleasure it is to hear Inger's voice; none could speak clearer than Inger now.
"Wasn't it four cows we had?" she asks.
"'Tis more than that," says he proudly. "We've eight."
"Eight cows!"
"That is to say, counting the bull."
"Have you sold any butter?"