orth by Maren, Ditte would come out from her hiding-place,
crying and begging for pardon. The old woman would cry too, and the
one would soothe the other, until both were comforted.

"Ay, ay, 'tis hard to live," old Maren would say. "If you'd but had
a father--one worth having. Maybe you'd have got the thrashings all
folks need, and poor old Granny'd have lived with you instead of
begging her food!"

Maren had barely finished speaking, when a cart with a bony old nag
in the shafts stopped outside on the road. A big stooping man with
tousled hair and beard sprang down from the cart, threw the reins
over the back of the nag, and came towards the house. He looked like
a coalheaver.

"He's selling herrings," said Ditte, who was kneeling on a stool by
the window. "Shall I let him in?"

"Ay, just open the door."

Ditte unbolted the door, and the man came staggering in. He wore
heavy wooden boots, into which his trousers were pushed; and each
step he took rang through the room, which was too low for him to
stand upright in. He stood looking round just inside the door; Ditte
had taken refuge behind Granny's spinning wheel. He came towards the
living room, holding out his hand.

Ditte burst into laughter at his confusion when the old woman did
not accept it. "Why, Granny's blind!" she said, bubbling over with
mirth.

"Oh, that's it? Then it's hardly to be expected that you could see,"
he said, taking the old woman's hand. "Well, I'm your son-in-law,
there's news for you." His voice rang with good-humor.

Maren quickly raised her head. "Which of the girls is it?" asked
she.

"The mother of this young one," answered he, aiming at Ditte with
his big battered hat. "It's not what you might call legal yet; we've
done without the parson till he's needed--so much comes afore that.
But a house and a home we've got, though poor it may be. We live a
good seven miles inland on the other side of the common--on the
_sand_--folks call it the 'Crow's Nest'!"

"And what's your name?" asked Maren again.

"Lars Peter Hansen, I was christened."

The old woman considered for a while, then shook her head. "I've
never heard of you."

"My father was called the hangman. Maybe you know me now?"

"Ay, 'tis a known name--if not of the best."

"Folks can't always choose their own names, or character either, and
must just be satisfied with a clear conscience. But as I was passing
I thought I'd just look in and see you. When we're having