ones, together with
the thick woollen vest Granny had knitted for her--the wet edge of
her skirt cut her bare legs, which were swollen from the lash of the
cane. But the silent rain did her good. Suddenly something flew up
from beside her; she heard the sound of rushes standing rustling in
the water--and knew that she had got away from the road. She
collapsed, and crawled into the undergrowth, and lay shivering in a
heap, like a sick puppy.

There she lay groaning without really having any more pain; the cold
had numbed her limbs and deadened the smart. It was distress of soul
which made her wince now and then; it was wrung by the emptiness
and meaninglessness of her existence. She needed soothing hands, a
mother first of all, who would fondle her--but she got only hard
words and blows from that quarter. Yet it was expected that she
should give what she herself missed most of all--a mother's
long-suffering patience and tender care to the three tiresome little
ones, who were scarcely more helpless than she was.

Her black despair little by little gave place to numbness. Hate and
anger, feebleness and want, had all fought in her mind and worn her
out. The cold did the rest, and she fell into a doze.

A peculiar, grinding, creaking and jolting noise came from the road.
Only one cart in all the world could produce that sound. Ditte
opened her eyes, and a feeling of joy went through her--her father!
She tried to call, but no sound came, and each time she tried to
rise her legs gave way under her. She crawled up with difficulty
over the edge of the ditch, out into the middle of the road, and
there collapsed.

As the nag neared that spot, it stopped, threw up its head, snorted,
and refused to go on. Lars Peter jumped down and ran to the horse's
head to see what was wrong; there he found Ditte, stiff with cold
and senseless.

Under his warm driving cape she came to herself again, and life
returned to the cold limbs. Lars Peter thawed them one by one in his
huge fists. Ditte lay perfectly quiet in his arms; she could hear
the beat of his great heart underneath his clothes, throb, throb!
Each beat was like the soft nosing of some animal, and his deep
voice sounded to her like an organ. His big hands, which took hold
of so much that was hard and ugly, were the warmest she had ever
known. Just like Granny's cheek--the softest thing in all the
world--were they.

"Now we must get out and run a little," said the father sudden