One afternoon he went home to see his family before going to a meeting. The children were alone. “Where is mother?” he asked, taking Young Lasse on his knee. Little Sister was sitting upright in her cradle, playing.
“Mother made herself fine and went out into the city,” replied the child. “Mother so fine!”
“So? Was she so fine?” Pelle went into the bed-room; he looked into the wardrobe. Ellen’s wedding-dress was not there.
“That is curious,” he thought, and began to play with the children. The little girl stretched her tiny arms toward him. He had to take her up and sit with a child on either knee. The little girl kept on picking at his upper lip, as though she wanted to say something. “Yes, father’s moustache has fallen off, Little Sister,” said Young Lasse, in explanation.
“Yes, it has flown away,” said Pelle. “There came a wind and—phew!— away it went!” He looked into the glass with a little grimace—that moustache had been his pride! Then he laughed at the children.
Ellen came home breathless, as though she had been running; a tender rosiness lay over her face and throat. She went into the bedroom with her cloak on. Pelle followed her. “You have your wedding-dress on,” he said wonderingly.
“Yes, I wanted something done to it, so I went to the dressmaker, so that she could see the dress on me. But run out now, I’ll come directly; I only want to put another dress on.”
Pelle wanted to stay, but she pushed him toward the door. “Run away!” she said, pulling her dress across her bosom. The tender red had spread all over her bosom—she was so beautiful in her confusion!
After a time she came into the living-room and laid some notes on the table before him.
“What’s this again?” he cried, half startled by the sight of all this money.