The farmyard here was like a great cradle, which swayed and swayed in the uncertain moonlight, and now that Pelle had once quite surrendered himself to the past, there was no end to the memories of childhood that rose within him. His whole existence passed before him, swaying above his head as before, and the earth itself seemed like a dark speck in the abysm of space.
And then the crying broke out from the house—big with destiny, to be heard all over the place, so that Kongstrup slunk away shamefaced, and the other grew angry and ungovernable. … And Lasse … yes, where was Father Lasse?
With one leap, Pelle was in the brew-house, knocking on the door of the maid’s room.
“Is that you, Anders?” whispered a voice from within, and then the door opened, and a pair of arms fastened themselves about him and drew him in. Pelle felt about him, and his hands sank into a naked bosom—why, it was yellow-haired Marie!
“Is Karna still here?” he asked. “Can’t I speak to Karna a moment?”
They were glad to see him again; and yellow-haired Marie patted his cheeks quite affectionately, and just before that she kissed him too. Karna could scarcely recover from her surprise; he had acquired such a townsman’s air. “And now you are a shoemaker too, in the biggest workshop in the town! Yes, we’ve heard; Butcher Jensen heard about it on the market. And you have grown tall and townified. You do hold yourself well!” Karna was dressing herself.
“Where is Father Lasse?” said Pelle; he had a lump in his throat only from speaking of him.
“Give me time, and I’ll come out with you. How fine you dress now! I should hardly have known you. Would you, Marie?”
“He’s a darling boy—he always was,” said Marie, and she pushed at him with her arched foot—she was now in bed again.
“It’s the same suit as I always had,” said Pelle.