an, asking: "Can you manage her?"

"Ay, she's good enough," said Maren from the kitchen, fumbling with
the sticks in trying to light the fire. "I've no one better to lean
on--and don't want it either. But she's a child, and I'm old and
troublesome--so the one makes up for the other. The foal will kick
backwards, and the old horse will stand. But 'tis dull to spend
one's childhood with one that's old and weak and all."

Ditte was breathless when she reached the baker's, so quickly had
she run in order to get back as soon as possible to the big stooping
man with the good-natured growl.

"Now I've got a father, just like other children," she shouted
breathlessly. "He's at home with Granny--and he's got a horse and
cart."

"Nay, is that so?" said they, opening their eyes, "and what's his
name?"

"He's called the rag and bone man!" answered Ditte proudly.

And they knew him here! Ditte saw them exchange glances.

"Then you belong to a grand family," said the baker's wife, laying
the loaf of bread on the counter--without realizing that the child
had already had her weekly loaf, so taken up was she with the news.

And Ditte, who was even more so, seized the bread and ran. Not until
she was halfway home did she remember what she ought to have
confessed; it was too late then.

Before Lars Peter Hansen left, he presented them with a dozen
herrings, and repeated his promise of coming to fetch them to the
wedding.

CHAPTER XI

THE NEW FATHER

When Ditte was six months old, she had the bad habit of putting
things into her mouth--everything went that way. This was the proof
whether they could be eaten or not.

Ditte laughed when Granny told about it, because she was so much
wiser now. There were things one could not eat and yet get pleasure
from, and other things which could be eaten, but gave more enjoyment
if one left them alone, content in the thought of how they would
taste if----Then one hugged oneself with delight at keeping it so
much longer. "You're foolish," said Granny, "eat it up before it
goes bad!" But Ditte understood how to put by. She would dream over
one or other thing she had got: a red apple, for instance, she would
press to her cheek and mouth and kiss. Or she would hide it and go
about thinking of it with silent devotion. Should she return and
find it spoiled, well, in imagination she had eaten it over and over
again. This was beyond Granny; her helplessness had made her greedy,
and she