"Whatever it may be," said she after a few moments, "you've behaved like the great man I once read about, who rehearsed his own funeral—with four black horses, hearse and everything. All his servants had to pretend they were the procession, dressed in black, they had even to cry. He himself was watching from an attic window, and when he saw the servants laughing behind their handkerchiefs instead of crying, he took it so to heart that he died. 'Tis dangerous for folks to make fun of their own passing away—wherever they may be going!"
"I wasn't making fun, Granny," Ditte assured her again.
From that day Maren went in daily dread of the child being claimed by her parents. "My ears are burning," she often said, "maybe 'tis your mother talking of us."
Sörine certainly did talk of them in those days. Ditte was now old enough to make herself useful; her mother would not mind having her home to look after the little ones. "She's nearly nine years old now and we'll have to take her sooner or later," she explained.
Lars Peter demurred; he thought it was a shame to take her from Granny. "Let's take them both then," said he.
Sörine refused to listen, and nagged for so long that she overcame his opposition.
"We've been expecting you," said Maren when at last he came to fetch the child. "We've known for long that you'd come on this errand."
"'Tisn't exactly with my good will. But in a way a mother has a right to her own child, and Sörine thinks she'd like to have her," answered Lars Peter. He wanted to smooth it down for both sides.
"I know you've done your best. Well, it can't be helped. And how's every one at home? There's another mouth to feed, I've heard."
"Ay, he's nearly six months old now." Lars Peter brightened up, as he always did when speaking of his children.