Sigrun drove down a hill toward the house. And her despair passed from her almost at once. Again the same numbness came over her, and something whispered that there was no need to fear; all would go well.
Just at the entrance to the drive stood a little red-painted hut.
"Here it is. Just go in there," said the knife-grinder.
He roused himself.
"I'll drive up to the house and get the horse in," he said. "You can go in meantime. There's nobody in the traveller's hut, it seems. You'll find a key just down under the step."
Sigrun did as he said, and found herself in a little cottage divided midway by a passage running through, with a room on either side. Both rooms were arranged and furnished in the same manner. Bare walls, fixed bedsteads with straw mattresses, a stove, a big, heavy table, and a few heavy chairs. A bucket of water and a bundle of firewood were there, but there were no pillows, no sheets, cooking-pots or plates, no towels or washing basins—nothing that could be taken away. A great cupboard stood in one of the rooms, but the key was not in the lock.
It was not altogether cold in the rooms; there had evidently been a fire there during the day. And they were clean and well aired.
"I must try to light; a fire," thought Sigrun.
While she was busy with this, the knife-grinder entered. He could hardly stand upright. Without a word, he threw himself on a bed, and in a moment was fast asleep.
"I do not think he is ill," said Sigrun to herself. "He will be all right when he has had a night's rest. No need to call for help."