from?" answered Maren mumblingly. "Where's
there room for poor people like us? Some have plenty--and for all
that go where they have no right to be; others the Lord's given
naught but a corner in the churchyard. But you don't belong to these
parts, since you ask."

No, the young woman came from Falster; her voice grew tender as she
spoke of her birthplace.

"Is't far from here?" said Maren, glancing at her.

"Yes, it takes a whole day by train and by coach, and from the town
too!"

"Has it come to that, that the men of the Sand farm must travel by
train to find wives for themselves? But the hamlet is good enough
for sweethearts."

The young woman looked uncertainly at her. "We met each other at the
Continuation School," said she.

"Well, well, has he been to Continuation School too? Ay, 'tis fine
all must be nowadays. Anyway, 'twas time he got settled."

The young woman flushed. "You speak so strangely," said she.

"Belike you'll tell me how an old wife should speak? 'Tis strange
indeed that a father sits sheltered at home while his little one
runs barefoot and begs."

"What do you mean?" whispered the young woman anxiously!

"What the Lord and every one knows, but no-one's told you. Look you
at the child _there_--faces don't tell lies, she's the image of her
father. If all was fair, 'twould be my daughter sitting here in your
stead--ay, and no hunger and cold for me."

As she spoke, Maren sucked a ham bone. She had no teeth, and the fat
ran down over her chin and hands.

The young woman took out her handkerchief. "Let me help you,
mother," said she, gently drying her face. She was white to the
lips, and her hands shook.

Maren allowed herself to be cared for. Her sunken mouth was set and
hard. Suddenly she grasped the young woman by the hips with her
earth-stained hands. "'Tis light and pure!" she mumbled, making
signs over her. "In childbirth 'twill go badly with you." The woman
swayed in her hands and fell to the ground without a sound; little
Ditte began to scream.

Maren was so terrified by the consequence of her act, that she never
thought of offering help. She tore down the shawls from the fire and
ran out, dragging the child after her. It was not until they reached
the last house in the hamlet, the lifeboat shed, that she stopped to
wrap themselves up.

Ditte still shook. "Did you kill her?" asked she.

The old woman started, alarmed at the word. "Nay, but of course not.
'Tis nothing to pr