ottle you, old witch
that you are." He was gray in the face, and his thin, crooked
fingers clutched the air.

"Have a care, your own child lies abed and can hear you." Maren
pushed open the door to the inner room. "D'you hear that, Ditte,
your father's going to throttle me."

Anders Olsen turned away from her and went towards the door. He
stood a moment fumbling with the door handle, as if not knowing what
he did; then came back, and sank down on the woodbox, gazing at the
clay floor. He looked uncommonly old and had always done so ever
since his childhood, it was said people of the Sand farm were always
born toothless.

Maren came and placed herself in front of him. "Maybe you're
thinking of the son your wife should bear? And maybe seeing him
already running by your side in the fields, just like a little foal,
and learning to hold the plow. Ay! many a one's no son to save for,
but enjoys putting by for all that. And often 'tis a close-fisted
father has a spendthrift son; belike 'tis the Lord punishing them
for their greedy ways. You may fight on till you break up--like many
another one. Or sell the farm to strangers, when there's no more
work in you--and shift in to the town to a fine little house! For
folks with money there's many a way!"

The farmer lifted his head. "Cast off your spell from my wife," he
said beseechingly, "and I'll make it worth your while."

"On the Sand farm we'll never set foot again, neither me nor the
child. But you can send your wife down here--'tis no harm she'll
come to, but don't forget if good's to come of it, on a load of peat
she must ride!"

Early next morning the pretty young wife from the Sand farm, could
be seen driving through the hamlet seated on top of a swinging
cartload of peat. Apparently the farmer did not care to be seen with
his wife like this, for he himself was not there; a lad drove the
cart. Many wondered where they were going, and with their faces
against the window-panes watched them pass. From one or another hut,
with no outlook, a woman would come throwing a shawl over her head
as she hurried towards the Naze. As the lad carried the peat into
Maren's woodshed, and the farmer's wife unpacked eggs, ham, cakes,
butter and many other good things on the table in the little sitting
room, they came streaming past, staring through the window--visiting
the people in the other part of the house with one or other foolish
excuse. Maren knew quite well why they came, but