ontriving all sorts of devices for her amusement. Frans looked in
often to see how she was getting on, and never came empty-handed.
There was always some special sweet bit to please her, or a "picture
book," or an apple, or a dainty plate of food begged from the
housekeeper.

Once, when Frans was going to the village, Alma had thought of
commissioning him to buy a doll, a prettily-dressed doll, for Decima;
but she checked herself, almost as if the idea had been sinful, and
that day a special contribution found its way down the chimney of her
treasure-house. Notwithstanding the kindness of Frans to the little
patient, he did not find her an angelic sufferer, even as far as he was
concerned. She became more and more fastidious as to his presents,
always expecting some gift more novel and beautiful than the last.
Frans made all kinds of jokes about her "decimal fractiousness," which
were noisily appreciated by the young arithmeticians at the cottage.
Nono alone could not laugh at anything which concerned Decima's
misfortune, for which he considered himself in a manner accountable.

The great undivided room of the interior of the cottage was now a sore
trial for Karin. The door seemed to be always ajar, Decima declaring
she felt a draught wherever she was placed. At last the boys went out
one day and left the door wide open, with poor little Decima alone in
the room, with a rush of keen air blowing upon her. Of course she took
cold, and Karin was quite in despair. The child began to complain that
the boys always were making a noise, and the dishes rattled so they
hurt her. It was in vain that Karin tripped about with the utmost
care; her lightest steps, Decima said, shook the whole floor. As for
Jan and the boys, they were for ever doing something that made the
little patient's head ache or that put her in a bad humour. The doctor
finally said he did not see how Decima was to get well in that room,
with that noisy family about her. It might do for well folks to live
so packed together, but to be sick in such a place was another question.

Karin, with her usually cheerful face all clouded, went one day to old
Pelle's room for comfort, as she had often done before. He did not
say, though he thought it, that his own little den was none of the
warmest, or he would take Decima there. He was thankful for the
shelter, such as it was. He proposed nothing for the child's comfort,
but reminded Karin that little Decima