Marie’s face became set, but she did not reply.
“It was only by pure chance that I met her yesterday, otherwise we should have missed one another.”
“Then I must have forgotten it,” said Marie morosely.
“Why, of course you forgot it. But that’s the second time this week. You must be in love!” he added, smiling.
Marie turned her back on him. “I’ve got nothing to do with her—I don’t owe her anything!” suddenly she cried defiantly. “And I’m not going to clean your room any longer, either—let her do it—so there!” She seized her pail and scrubbing-brush and ran into her own room. After a time he heard her voice from within the room; at first he thought she was singing a tune to herself, but then he heard sobs.
He hurried into the room; she was lying on the bed, weeping, biting the pillow and striking at it angrily with her roughened hands. Her thin body burned as if with fever.
“You are ill, Marie dear,” said Pelle anxiously, laying his hand on her forehead. “You ought to go to bed and take something to make you sweat. I’ll warm it up for you.”
She was really ill; her eyes were dry and burning, and her hands were cold and clammy. But she would agree to nothing. “Go away!” she said angrily, “and attend to your own work! Leave me alone!” She had turned her back on him and nudged him away defiantly with her shoulder. “You’d best go in and cuddle Ellen!” she cried suddenly, with a malicious laugh.
“Why are you like this, Marie?” said Pelle, distressed. “You are quite naughty!”
She buried her face in the bed and would neither look at him nor answer him. So he went back to his work.