"And what's your name?" asked Maren again.
"Lars Peter Hansen, I was christened."
The old woman considered for a while, then shook her head. "I've never heard of you."
"My father was called the hangman. Maybe you know me now?"
"Ay, 'tis a known name—if not of the best."
"Folks can't always choose their own names, or character either, and must just be satisfied with a clear conscience. But as I was passing I thought I'd just look in and see you. When we're having the parson to give us his blessing, Sörine and me, I'll come with the trap and fetch the two of you to church. That's if you don't care to move down to us at once—seems like that would be best."
"Did Sörine send the message?" asked Maren suspiciously.
Lars Peter Hansen mumbled something, which might be taken for either yes or no.
"Ay, I thought so, you hit on it yourself, and thanks to you for your kindness; but we'd better stay where we are. Though we'd like to go to the wedding. 'Tis eight children I've brought into the world, and nigh all married now, but I've never been asked to a wedding afore." Maren became thoughtful. "And what's your trade?" she asked soon after.
"I hawk herrings—and anything else to be got. Buy rags and bones too when folks have any."