So Pelle thought better of it and began to undress; and at last Lasse got off.
When Lasse reached Madam Olsen’s house, it was shut up and in darkness. He recognized it easily from Pelle’s descriptions, and walked round it two or three times to see how the walls stood. Both timber and plaster looked good, and there was a fair-sized piece of ground belonging to it, just big enough to allow of its being attended to on Sundays, so that one could work for a daily wage on weekdays.
Lasse knocked at the door, and a little while after a white form appeared at the window, and asked who was there.
“It’s Pelle’s father, Lasse Karlsson,” said Lasse, stepping out into the moonlight.
The door was unbolted, and a soft voice said: “Come inside! Don’t stand out there in the cold!” and Lasse stepped over the threshold. There was a smell of sleep in the room, and Lasse had an idea where the alcove was, but could see nothing. He heard the breathing as of a stout person drawing on stockings. Then she struck a match and lighted the lamp.
They shook hands, and looked at one another as they did so. She wore a skirt of striped bed-ticking, which kept her night-jacket together, and had a blue night-cap on her head. She had strong-looking limbs and a good bust, and her face gave a good impression. She was the kind of woman that would not hurt a fly if she were not put upon; but she was not a toiler—she was too soft for that.
“So this is Pelle’s father!” she said. “It’s a young son you’ve got. But do sit down!”
Lasse blinked his eyes a little. He had been afraid that she would think him old.
“Yes, he’s what you’d call a late-born child; but I’m still able to do a man’s work in more ways than one.”
She laughed while she busied herself in placing on the table cold bacon and pork sausage, a dram, bread and a saucer of dripping. “But now you must eat!” she said. “That’s what a man’s known by. And you’ve come a long way.”