“Well, well, they are fine enough!” said the old woman, spreading the dress out in front of her. “They are fine things!” But Hanne put the things together and threw them into the corner by the stove.
“You are ill!” said her mother, gazing at her searchingly; “your eyes are blazing like fire.”
The darkness descended, and they went to bed. People burned no useless lights in those days, and it was certainly best to be in bed. They had laid the feather-bed over themselves cross-wise, when it comfortably covered all three; their daytime clothes they laid over their feet. Little Marie lay in the middle. No harm could come to her there. They talked at random about indifferent matters. Hanne’s voice sounded loud and cheerful in the darkness as though it came from a radiant countryside.
“You are so restless,” said the mother. “Won’t you try to sleep a little? I can feel the burning in you from here!”
“I feel so light,” replied Hanne; “I can’t lie still.” But she did lie still, gazing into space and humming inaudibly to herself, while the fever raged in her veins.
After a time the old woman awoke; she was cold. Hanne was standing in the middle of the room, with open mouth; and was engaged in putting on her fine linen underclothing by the light of a candle-end.
Her breath came in short gasps and hung white on the air.
“Are you standing there naked in the cold?” said Madam Johnsen reproachfully. “You ought to take a little care of yourself.”
“Why, mother, I’m so warm! Why, it’s summer now!”
“What are you doing, child?”