Pelle mechanically allowed himself to be pulled aside, and answered the child at random. He was thinking of the children’s little home, which had once been so hospitably opened to him, and must now be broken up. Perhaps it would be the salvation of Karl and Marie; there was a future for them outside; they were both young and courageous. And Father Lasse could come to him; it would be quite possible to make up his bed in the living-room at night and put it out of the way in the daytime. Ellen was no longer so particular. But Peter—what was to become of him? The home was the only thing that still held him.
When Young Lasse looked through the tunnel-entry into the darkness of the “Ark” he did not want to go in. “Ugly, ugly!” he said, in energetic refusal. Pelle had to take him in his arms. “Lasse not like that!” he said, pushing with his hands against his father’s shoulders. “Lasse wants to go back! get down!”
“What!” said Pelle, laughing, “doesn’t Young Lasse like the ‘Ark’? Father thinks it’s jolly here!”
“Why?” asked the boy, pouting.
“Why?” Well, Pelle could not at once explain. “Because I lived here once on a time!” he replied.
“And where was Young Lasse then?”
“Then you used to sit in mother’s eyes and laugh at father.”
At this the child forgot his fear of the darkness and the heavy timbers. He pressed his round little nose against his father’s, and gazed into his eyes, in order to see whether a little boy was sitting in them too. He laughed when he glimpsed himself in them. “Who sits in mother’s eyes now?” he asked.
“Now a little sister sits there, who likes to play with Young Lasse,” said Pelle. “But now you must walk again—it doesn’t do for a man to sit on anybody’s arm!”
The three orphans were waiting for him eagerly; Karl hopped and leaped into the air when he saw Pelle.