“Then I’ll go to the wedding,” said Lasse eagerly, while they strolled on. “It is very interesting to see when one of a family comes to something.” Pelle felt that this was to some extent meant as a reproach, but he said nothing.
“Shall we have one look at the new harbor?” he said.
“No, now the sun’s going down, and I’ll go home and get to bed. I’m old—but you go. I shall soon find my way back.” Pelle strolled onward, but then turned aside toward the north—he would go and bid Marie Nielsen good-bye. He owed her a friendly word for all her goodness. Also, as an exception, she should for once see him in respectable clothes. She had just come home from her work, and was on the point of preparing her supper.
“No, Pelle, is that you?” she cried delightedly, “and so grand, too—you look like a prince!” Pelle had to remain to supper.
“I have really only come to thank you for all your friendliness and to say good-bye. To-morrow I go to Copenhagen.”
She looked at him earnestly. “And you are glad!”
Pelle had to tell her what he had been doing since he had last seen her. He sat there looking gratefully about the poor, clean room, with the bed set so innocently against the wall, covered with a snow-white counterpane. He had never forgotten that fragrance of soap and cleanliness and her fresh, simple nature. She had taken him in the midst of all his misery and had not thought her own white bed too good for him while she scrubbed the mire from him. When he reached the capital he would have himself photographed and send her his portrait.
“And how are you doing now?” he asked gently.
“Just as when you last saw me—only a little more lonely,” she answered earnestly.
And then he must go. “Good-bye, and may everything go well with you!” he said, and he shook her hand. “And many thanks for all your goodness!”