nd what of your own, my dear?" She points to
Inger's hare-lip, calling her a ghastly sight for God and man.

Inger answers furiously, and Oline being fat, she calls her a lump of
blubber--"a lump of dog's blubber like you. You sent me a hare--I'll
pay you for that."

"Hare again?" says Oline. "If I'd no more guilt in anything than I
have about that hare. What was it like?"

"What was it like? Why, what's a hare always like?"

"Like you. The very image."

"Out with you--get out!" shrieks Inger.

"'Twas you sent Os-Anders with that hare. I'll have you punished; I'll
have you put in prison for that."

"Prison--was it prison you said?"

"Oh, you're jealous and envious of all you see; you hate me for all
the good things I've got," says Inger again. "You've lain awake with
envy since I got Isak and all that's here. Heavens, woman, what have
I ever done to you? Is it my fault that your children never got on in
the world, and turned out badly, every one of them? You can't bear the
sight of mine, because they're fine and strong, and better named than
yours. Is it my fault they're prettier flesh and blood than yours ever
were?"

If there was one thing could drive Oline to fury it was this. She had
been a mother many times, and all she had was her children, such as
they were; she made much of them, and boasted of them, told of great
things they had never really done, and hid their faults.

"What's that you're saying?" answered Oline. "Oh that you don't sink
in your grave for shame! My children! They were a bright host of
angels compared with yours. You dare to speak of my children? Seven
blessed gifts of God they were from they were little, and all grown up
now every one. You dare to speak...."

"What about Lise, that was sent to prison?" asks Inger.

"For never a thing. She was as innocent as a flower," answers Oline.
"And she's in Bergen now; lives in a town and wears a hat--but what
about you?"

"What about Nils--what did they say of him?"

"Oh, I'll not lower myself.... But there's one of yours now lying
buried out there in the woods--what did you do to it, eh?"

"Now ...! One-two-three--out you go!" shrieks Inger again, and makes a
rush at Oline.

But Oline does not move, does not even rise to her feet. Her stolid
indifference paralyses Inger, who draws back, muttering: "Wait till I
get that knife."

"Don't trouble," says Oline. "I'm going. But as for you, turning your
own kin out of doors one-two-three