Then there were little things that had belonged to Bengta herself, cheap finery that all had its happy memory of fairs and holidays, which he recalled in his muttered reverie.
Pelle liked this subdued murmur that he did not need to listen to or answer, and that was so pleasant to doze off in. He lay looking out sleepily at the bright sky, tired and with a vague feeling of something unpleasant that was past.
Suddenly he started. He had heard the door of the cow-stable open, and steps upon the long foddering-passage. It was the pupil. He recognized the hated step at once.
He thrilled with delight. Now that fellow would be made to understand that he mustn’t do anything to boys with fathers who could hold a man out at arm’s length and scold! oh, much worse than the bailiff. He sat up and looked eagerly at his father.
“Lasse!” came a voice from the end of the tables.
The old man growled sullenly, stirred uneasily, but did not rise.
“Las-se!” came again, after a little, impatiently and in a tone of command.
“Yes,” said Lasse slowly, rising and going out.
“Can’t you answer when you’re called, you old Swedish rascal? Are you deaf?”
“Oh, I can answer well enough,” said Lasse, in a trembling voice. “But Mr. Pupil oughtn’t to—I’m a father, let me tell you—and a father’s heart——”