They sat under the lantern, which hung from one of the beams, sorting rags, which lay round them in bundles; wool, linen and cotton—all carefully separated. Outside it was cold and dark, but here it was cosy. The old nag was working at his food like a threshing machine, the cow lay panting with well-being as it chewed the cud, and the hens were cackling sleepily from the hen-house. The new pig was probably dreaming of its mother—now and again a sucking could be heard. It had only left its mother a few days ago.
"Is this wool?" asked Ditte, holding out a big rag.
Lars Peter examined it, drew out a thread and put it in the flame of the lantern.
"It should be wool," said he at last, "for it melts and smells of horn. But Heaven knows," he felt the piece of cloth again meditatively. "Maybe 'tis some of those new-fashioned swindles; 'tis said they can make plant stuff, so folks can't see the difference between it and wool. And they make silk of glass too, I'm told."
Ditte jumped up and opened the shutter, listening, then disappeared across the yard. She returned shortly afterwards.
"Was anything wrong with the children?" asked Lars Peter.
"'Twas only little Povl crying; but how can they make silk of glass?" asked she suddenly, "glass is so brittle!"
"Ay, 'tis the new-fashioned silk though, and may be true enough. If you see a scrap of silk amongst the rags 'tis nearly always broken."
"And what queer thing's glass made of?"
"Ay, you may well ask that—if I could only tell you. It can't be any relation to ice, as it doesn't melt even when the sun shines on it. Maybe—no, I daren't try explaining it to you. 'Tis a pity not to have learned things properly; and think things out oneself."