“Yes, father, it’s quite all right,” Pelle replied in a half-choking voice.
“Well, God be thanked for that! You’ve got a good wife in Ellen, and she has given you splendid children. How is Young Lasse? I should dearly like to see him again before I go from here—there will still be a Lasse!”
“I’ll bring him to you early in the morning,” said Pelle. “And now you ought to see if you can’t sleep a little, father. It is pitch dark still!”
Lasse turned himself submissively toward the wall. Once he cautiously turned his head to see if Pelle was sleeping; his eyes could not see across the room, so he attempted to get out of bed, but fell back with a groan.
“What is it, father?” cried Pelle anxiously, and he was beside him in a moment.
“I only wanted just to see that you’d got something over you in this cold! But my old limbs won’t bear me any more,” said the old man, with a shamefaced expression.
Toward morning he fell into a quiet sleep, and Pelle brought Madam Johnsen to sit with the old man, while he went home for Young Lasse. It was no easy thing to do; but the last wish of the old man must be granted. And he knew that Ellen would not entrust the child to strange hands.
Ellen’s frozen expression lit up as he came; an exclamation of joy rose to her lips, but the sight of his face killed it. “My father lies dying,” he said sadly—“he very much wants to see the boy.” She nodded and quietly busied herself in making the child ready. Pelle stood at the window gazing out.
It seemed very strange to him that he should be here once more; the memory of the little household rose to his mind and made him weak. He must see Little Sister! Ellen led him silently into the bedroom; the child was sleeping in her cradle; a deep and wonderful peace brooded over her bright head. Ellen seemed to be nearer to him in this room here; he felt her compelling eyes upon him. He pulled himself forcibly together and went into the other room—he had nothing more to do there. He was a stranger in this home. A thought occurred to him—whether she was going on with that? Although it was nothing to him, the question would not be suppressed; and he looked about him for some sign that might be significant. It was a poverty-stricken place; everything superfluous had vanished. But a shoemaker’s sewing machine had made its appearance, and there was work on it. Strike-breaking work! he thought mechanically. But not disgraceful—for the first time he was glad to discover a case of strike-breaking. She had also begun to take in sewing—and she looked thoroughly overworked. This gave him downright pleasure.
“The boy is ready to go with you now,” she said.