The child was silent, and turned her head away.
Over the whole of the wall were tiny glittering crystals. Now and again there was a rustling sound under the wall-paper.
“Grandmother, what’s that funny noise?” asked the child.
“That’s the bugs—they are coming down,” said the old woman. “It’s too cold for them up there in the attics, and they don’t like it here. You should see them; they go to Olsen’s with the warm wall; they stay there in the cold.”
“Is the wall at Olsen’s always warm, then?”
“Yes, when there’s fire in the boiler of the steam mill.”
Then the child was silent a while, wearily turning her head from side to side. A dreadful weariness was stamped on her face. “I’m cold,” she complained after a time.
“See if you can’t shiver!”
“Hadn’t I better jump a bit?”
“No, then you’d just swallow down the cold—the air is like ice. Just keep still, and soon mother will be here, and she’ll bring something!”