d the rope, while I turn him over."

He bound his brother's hands firmly behind his back, then set him on
his feet and brushed him. "You look like a pig," said he, "you must
have been rolling on the muddy road. Go indoors quietly or you'll
be sorry for it. No fault of yours that you're not a murderer
today."

Johannes was led in, and set down in the rush-bottomed armchair
beside the fire. The children were sent out of doors, and Ditte and
Kristian ordered to harness Uncle Johannes' horse.

"Now we're alone, I'll tell you that you've behaved like a
scoundrel," said Lars Peter slowly. "Here have I been longing for
many a year to see some of my own kin, and when you came it was like
a message from home. I'd give much never to have had it now. All of
us saw something good in you; we didn't expect much, so there wasn't
much for you to live up to. But what have you done? Dragged us into
a heap of filth and villainy and wickedness. We've done with you
here--make no mistake about that. You can take the one horse and
cart and whatever else you can call your own, and off you go!
There's no money to be got; you've wasted more than you've earned."

Johannes made no answer, and avoided his brother's eyes.

The cart was driven up outside. Lars Peter led him out, and lifted
him like a child on to the seat. He loosened the rope with his cut
and bleeding hands; the blood from the wound on his cheek ran down
on to his chin and clothes. "Get off with you," said he
threateningly, wiping the blood from his chin, "and be smart about
it."

Johannes sat for a moment swaying in the cart, as if half asleep.
Suddenly he pulled himself together, and with a shout of laughter
gathered up the reins and quickly set off round the corner of the
house up to the highroad.

Lars Peter stood gazing after the horse and cart, then went in and
washed off the blood. Ditte bathed his wounds in cold water and put
on sticking-plaster.

For the next few days they were busy getting rid of all traces of
that summer's doings. Lars Peter dug down the remainder of the
refuse, threw the block away, and cleaned up. When some farmer or
other at night knocked on the window-panes with his whip, shouting:
"Lars Peter, I've got a dead animal for you!" he made no answer. No
more sausage-making, no more trading in carrion for him!

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAST OF THE CROW'S NEST

Ditte went about singing at her work; she had no-one to help her,
and ran about to