nows," he felt the piece of cloth again
meditatively. "Maybe 'tis some of those new-fashioned swindles; 'tis
said they can make plant stuff, so folks can't see the difference
between it and wool. And they make silk of glass too, I'm told."

Ditte jumped up and opened the shutter, listening, then disappeared
across the yard. She returned shortly afterwards.

"Was anything wrong with the children?" asked Lars Peter.

"'Twas only little Povl crying; but how can they make silk of
glass?" asked she suddenly, "glass is so brittle!"

"Ay, 'tis the new-fashioned silk though, and may be true enough. If
you see a scrap of silk amongst the rags 'tis nearly always
broken."

"And what queer thing's glass made of?"

"Ay, you may well ask that--if I could only tell you. It can't be
any relation to ice, as it doesn't melt even when the sun shines on
it. Maybe--no, I daren't try explaining it to you. 'Tis a pity not
to have learned things properly; and think things out oneself."

"Can any folks do that?"

"Ay, there _must_ be some, or how would everything begin--if no one
hit on them. I used to think and ask about everything; but I've
given it up now, I never got to the bottom of it. This with your
mother doesn't make a fellow care much for life either." Lars Peter
sighed.

Ditte bent over her work. When this topic came up, it was better to
be silent.

For a few minutes neither spoke. Lars Peter's hands were working
slowly, and at last stopped altogether. He sat staring straight
ahead without perceiving anything; he was often like this of late.
He rose abruptly, and went towards the shutter facing east, and
opened it; it was still night, but the stars were beginning to pale.
The nag was calling from the stall, quietly, almost unnoticeably.
Lars Peter fastened the shutter, and stumbled out to the horse.
Ditte followed him with her eyes.

"What d'you want now?" he asked in a dull voice, stroking the horse.
The nag pushed its soft nose into his shoulder. It was the gentlest
caress Lars Peter knew, and he gave it another supply of corn.

Ditte turned her head towards them--she felt anxious over her
father's present condition. It was no good going about hanging one's
head.

"Is it going to have another feed?" said she, trying to rouse him.
"That animal'll eat us out of house and home!"

"Ay, but it's got something to do--and we've a long journey in front
of us." Lars Peter came back and began sorting again.

"How many mi