Ditte was terrified. That was exactly what Granny was afraid of, that Sörine should get hold of it. "Granny has hidden it safely," said she.
"Oh, has she, and where?—in the eiderdown of course!"
"No!" Ditte assured her, shaking her head vehemently. But any one could see that was where it was hidden.
"Oh, that's lucky, for that eiderdown I'm going to fetch some day. That you can tell Granny, with my love, next time you see her. Each of my sisters when they married was given an eiderdown, and I claim mine too."
"Granny only has one eiderdown!" Ditte protested—perhaps for the twentieth time.
"Then she'll just have to take one of her many under-quilts. She lies propped up nearly to the ceiling, with all those bedclothes."
Yes, Granny's bed was soft, Ditte knew that better than any one else. Granny's bedclothes were heavy, and yet warmer than anything else in the whole world, and there was a straw mat against the wall. It had been so cosy and comfortable sleeping with Granny.
Ditte was small for her age, all the hardships she had endured had stunted her growth. But her mind was above the average; she was thoughtful by nature, and her life had taught her not to shirk, but to take up her burden. She had none of the carelessness of childhood, but was full of forethought and troubles. She had to worry—for her little sisters and brothers the few days she was with Granny, and for Granny all the time she was not with her.
As a punishment, for having prolonged her visit to Granny without permission, Sörine for a long time refused to let her go again. Then Ditte went about thinking of the old woman, worrying herself into a morbid self-reproach; most of all at night, when she could not sleep for cold, would her sorrows overwhelm her, and she would bury her head in the eiderdown, so that her mother should not hear her sobs.
She would remember all the sweet ways of the old woman, and bitterly repent the tricks and mischief she had played upon her. This was her punishment; she had repaid Granny badly for all her care, and now she was alone and forsaken. She had never been really good to the old woman; she would willingly be so now—but it was too late! There were hundreds of ways of making Granny happy, and Ditte knew them all, but she had been a horrid, lazy girl. If she could only go back now, she certainly would see that Granny always had a lump of sugar for her second cup of coffee—instead of stealing it herself. And she would remember every evening to heat the stone, and put it at the foot of the bed, so Granny's feet should not be cold. "You've forgotten the stone again," said Granny almost every night, "my feet are like ice. And what are yours like? Why, they're quite cold, child." Then Granny would rub the child's feet until they were warm; but nothing was done to her own—it was all so hopeless to think of it now.