strolling over the downs, looking like a goblin, to visit
the young wife next door; then the old grandmother thumped on the
floor with her crutch, cursing everything and everybody.

There was much gossip in the hamlet--of sorrow and shame and crime;
Ditte could follow the stories herself, often to the very end. She
was quick to find the thread, even in the most difficult cases.

Her life was much happier now: there was little to do in the house,
and no animals to look after, so she had more time of her own. Her
schooldays were over, and she was soon to be confirmed. Even the
nag, whom at first she had been able to keep her eye on from the
kitchen window, needed no looking after now. The inn-keeper had
forbidden them to let it feed on the downs, and had taken it on to
his own farm. There it had been during the winter, and they only saw
it when it was carting sea-weed or bringing a load of fish from the
beach for the inn-keeper. It was not well-treated in its present
home, and had all the hard tasks given it, so as to spare the
inn-keeper's own animals. Tears came into Ditte's eyes when she
thought of it. It became like a beast of burden in the fairy tale,
and no-one there to defend it. It was long since it had pulled
crusts of bread from her mouth with its soft muzzle.

Ditte lost her habit of stooping, and began to fill out as she grew
up. She enjoyed the better life and the children's happiness--the
one with the other added to her well-being. Her hair had grown, and
allowed itself the luxury of curling over her forehead, and her chin
was soft and round. No-one could say she was pretty, but her eyes
were beautiful--always on the alert, watching for something useful
to do. Her hands were red and rough--she had not yet learned how to
take care of them.

Ditte had finished in the kitchen, and went into the living room.
She sat down on the bench under the window, and began patching the
children's clothes; at the same time she could see what was
happening on the beach and on the downs.

Down on the shore the children were digging with all their might,
building sand-gardens and forts. To the right was a small hut, neat
and well cared for, outside which Rasmus Olsen, the fisherman, stood
shouting in through the window. His wife had turned him out--it
always sounded so funny when he had words with his wife, he mumbled
on loudly and monotonously as a preacher--it made one feel quite
sleepy. There was not a scrap of bad te