There stood the old barrack, staring emptily out of its black windows. The cold had stripped away the last shred of figured curtain, and sent it packing to the pawn-shop. It had exchanged the canary for a score of firewood, and had put a stop to the day-long, lonely crying of the little children behind the locked doors—that hymn of labor, which had ceased only in the evening, when the mothers returned from the factories. Now the mothers sat with their children all day long, and no one but the cold grudged them this delight. But the cold and its sister, hunger, came every day to look in upon them.
On the third floor, away from the court, Widow Johnsen sat in the corner by the stove. Hanne’s little girl lay cowering on the floor, on a tattered patchwork counterpane. Through the naked window one saw only ice, as though the atmosphere were frozen down to the ground. Transparent spots had formed on the window-panes every time the child had breathed on them in order to look out, but they had soon closed up again. The old woman sat staring straight into the stove with big, round eyes; her little head quivered continually; she was like a bird of ill omen, that knew a great deal more than any one could bear to hear.
“Now I’m cold again, grandmother,” said the child quietly.
“Don’t keep from shivering, then you’ll be warm,” said the old woman.
“Are you shivering?”
“No, I’m too old and stiff for it—I can’t shiver any more. But the cold numbs my limbs, so that I can’t feel them. I could manage well enough if it wasn’t for my back.”
“You lean your back against the cold stove too!”
“Yes, the cold grips my poor back so.”
“But that’s stupid, when the stove isn’t going.”
“But if only my back would get numb too!” said the old woman piteously.