"Can any folks do that?"
"Ay, there must be some, or how would everything begin—if no one hit on them. I used to think and ask about everything; but I've given it up now, I never got to the bottom of it. This with your mother doesn't make a fellow care much for life either." Lars Peter sighed.
Ditte bent over her work. When this topic came up, it was better to be silent.
For a few minutes neither spoke. Lars Peter's hands were working slowly, and at last stopped altogether. He sat staring straight ahead without perceiving anything; he was often like this of late. He rose abruptly, and went towards the shutter facing east, and opened it; it was still night, but the stars were beginning to pale. The nag was calling from the stall, quietly, almost unnoticeably. Lars Peter fastened the shutter, and stumbled out to the horse. Ditte followed him with her eyes.
"What d'you want now?" he asked in a dull voice, stroking the horse. The nag pushed its soft nose into his shoulder. It was the gentlest caress Lars Peter knew, and he gave it another supply of corn.
Ditte turned her head towards them—she felt anxious over her father's present condition. It was no good going about hanging one's head.
"Is it going to have another feed?" said she, trying to rouse him. "That animal'll eat us out of house and home!"
"Ay, but it's got something to do—and we've a long journey in front of us." Lars Peter came back and began sorting again.
"How many miles is it to Copenhagen then?"
"Six or seven hours' drive, I should say; we've got a load."