“Yes, yes!” said Ellen desperately, kissing her lips to make her stop talking. The child turned over contentedly, and in another moment she was asleep.
“She’s not hot now,” whispered Pelle. “I think the fever’s gone.” His face was very grave. Death had passed its cold hand over it; he knew it was only in jest, but he could not shake off the impression it had made.
They sat silent, listening to the child’s breathing, which was now quiet. Ellen had put her hand into Pelle’s, and every now and then she shuddered. They did not move, but simply sat and listened, while the time ran singing on. Then the cock crew below, and roused Pelle. It was three o’clock, and the child had slept for two hours. The lamp had almost burned dry, and he could scarcely see Ellen’s profile in the semi-darkness. She looked tired.
He rose noiselessly and kissed her forehead. “Go downstairs and go to bed,” he whispered, leading her toward the door.
Stealthy footsteps were heard outside. It was Brun who had been down to listen at the door. He had not been to bed at all. The lamp was burning in his sitting-room, and the table was covered with papers. He had been writing.
He became very cheerful when he heard that the attack was over. “I think you ought rather to treat us to a cup of coffee,” he answered, when Ellen scolded him because he was not asleep.
Ellen went down and made the coffee, and they drank it in Brun’s room. The doors were left ajar so that they could hear the child.
“It’s been a long night,” said Pelle, passing his hand across his forehead.
“Yes, if there are going to be more like it, we shall certainly have to move back into town,” said Ellen obstinately.
“It would be a better plan to begin giving her a cold bath in the morning as soon as she’s well again, and try to get her hardened,” said Pelle.