She ran out onto the gallery and tore away a few bits of trellis, so that the sound re-echoed through the court. People watched her out of all the dark windows. Widow Hanne had knocked off the head of her pride!
Then they sat down to their soup, the old woman and the child. “Eat!” said Hanne, standing over them and looking on with glowing eyes. Her cheeks were burning. “You look like a flower in the cold!” said her mother. “But eat, yourself, or you’ll starve to death.”
No, Hanne would not eat. “I feel so light,” she said, “I don’t need any food.” She stood there fingering her bundle; all her features were quivering, and her mouth was like that of a person sick of a fever.
“What have you there?” asked Madam Johnsen.
“Clothes for you and little Marie. You were so cold. I got them downstairs from the old clothes woman—they were so cheap.”
“Do you say you bought them?”
“Yes—I got them on credit.”
“Well, well, if you haven’t given too much for them! But it will do one good to have something warm on one’s back!”
Hanne undid the bundle, while the others looked on in suspense. A light summer dress made its appearance, pleated and low-necked, blue as little Marie’s eyes, and a pair of thin kid shoes. The child and the old woman gazed wonderingly at the dress. “How fine!” they said. They had forgotten everything, and were all admiration. But Hanne stood staring with horror, and suddenly burst into sobs.
“Come, come, Hanne!” said her mother, clapping her on the back. “You have bought a dress for yourself—that’s not so dreadful! Youth will have its rights.”