said I. 'Same
to you,' said he; 'how is your cow? Have you let her get into the marsh
since?' 'Oh, no,' said I, 'and here is another thank-ye to you.' 'Are
you working in this here bit of a parsonage?' said he. 'That I am,' said
I. 'Well, now listen,' said he; 'couldn't you hide me these two with
their little ones a day or so? for to-morrow there is to be a raid on
our people, and I wouldn't like to have these in Viborghouse; I can stow
myself away easy enough.' 'I'll see what I can do,' answered I; 'let
them come, say a little after bedtime, to the West house there, and I'll
get a ladder ready and help them up on the hayloft,--but have you food
and drink yourself?' 'Oh, I shall do well enough,' said he, 'and now
farewell to you until the sun is down.' So then they drifted along the
road to a one-horse farm, and that evening they came, sure enough, and I
hid the two women and the children until the second night; then they
slipped away again. Before I parted with them, the Poorman said, 'I'd
like to repay you this piece of work: isn't there something you want
very much?' 'Yes,' said I.--'What might it be?'--'Hm! The only thing is
Morten's Ane Kirstine at the farm where you went last night. But her
parents won't let me have her; they say I have too little, and that is
true too.' 'Hm, man,' says he, 'you look as if you had a pair of strong
arms of your own; that is a good heirloom, and she has some pennies,--in
a couple of days you might go and see what the old man's mind is. I'll
help along the best I know how.' I listened to that, for evil upon
them, those gipsies--they are not such fools. They can tell fortunes and
discover stolen goods, and they can do both good and evil as it
may happen.

"I thought over this thing a couple of days and some of the nights too,
and then the third day I drifted over to Morten's. Ane Kirstine stood
alone outside the gate with her back turned, for she was busy
whitewashing a wall, so I came upon her before she knew it. 'Mercy on
us! is that you?' she cried, 'where have you been all these many
days?'--'I have been at home, and in the field, and on the heath, as it
happened, and now I come to take a look at you.'--'I am not worth
looking at,' said she, and thrust her clay-covered hands down into the
pail to rinse off the clay. 'I don't care,' says I, 'whether you are
yellow or gray, for you are the best friend I've got in this world; but
I suppose I shall never be worthy of taking you in my