Pelle was like a man returning home after years of exile, and trying to bring himself into personal relations with everything; the act of oblivion was in force only up to the threshold; the real thing he had to see to himself. The land he had tilled was in other hands, he no longer had any right to it; but it was he who had planted, and he must know how it had been tended and how it had thriven.

The great advance had taken on a political character. The Movement had in the meantime let the demand of the poorest of the people for bread drop, and thrown them over as one would throw over ballast in order to rise more quickly. The institutions themselves would be won, and then they would of course come back to the starting-point and begin again quite differently. It might be rather convenient to turn out those who most hindered the advance, but would it lead to victory? It was upon them indeed that everything turned! Pelle had thoroughly learned the lesson, that he who thinks he will outwit others is outwitted himself. He had no faith in those who would climb the fence where it was lowest.

The new tactics dated from the victorious result of the great conflict. He had himself led the crowds in triumph through the capital, and if he had not been taken he would probably now be sitting in parliament as one of the labor members and symbolizing his promotion to citizenship. But now he was out of it all, and had to choose his attitude toward the existing state of things; he had belonged to the world of outcasts and had stood face to face with the irreconcilable. He was not sure that the poor man was to be raised by an extension of the existing social ethics. He himself was still an outlaw, and would probably never be anything else. It was hard to stoop to enter the doorway through which you had once been thrown out, and it was hard to get in. He did not intend to take any steps toward gaining admission to the company of respectable men; he was strong enough to stand alone now.

Perhaps Ellen expected something in that way as reparation for all the wrong she had suffered. She must have patience! Pelle had promised himself that he would make her and the children happy, and he persuaded himself that this would be best attained by following his own impulses.

He was not exactly happy. Pecuniarily things were in a bad way, and notwithstanding all his planning, the future continued to look uncertain. He needed to be the man, the breadwinner, so that Ellen could come to him for safety and shelter, take her food with an untroubled mind from his hand, and yield herself to him unresistingly.

He was not their god; that was where the defect lay. This was noticeable at any rate in Lasse Frederik. There was good stuff in the boy, although it had a tang of the street. He was an energetic fellow, bright and pushing, keenly alert with regard to everything in the way of business. Pelle saw in him the image of himself, and was only proud of him; but the boy did not look upon him with unconditional reliance in return. He was quick and willing, but nothing more; his attitude was one of trial, as if he wanted to see how things would turn out before he recognized the paternal relationship.

Pelle suffered under this impalpable distrust, which classed him with the “new fathers” of certain children; and he had a feeling that was at the same time painful and ridiculous, that he was on trial. In olden days the matter might have been settled by a good thrashing, but now things had to be arranged so that they would be lasting; he could no longer buy cheaply. When helping Lasse Frederik in organizing the milk-boys, he pocketed his pride and introduced features from the great conflict in order to show that he was good for something too. He could see from the boy’s expression that he did not believe much of it, and intended to investigate the matter more closely. It wounded his sensitive mind and drove him into himself.

One day, however, when he was sitting at his work, Lasse Frederik rushed in. “Father, tell me what you did to get the men that were locked into the factory out!” he cried breathlessly.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I did,” said Pelle reproachfully.

“Yes, I would; for they called you the ‘Lightning!’” exclaimed the boy in tones of admiration. “And they had to put you in prison so as to get rid of you. The milk-driver told me all about it!”

From that day they were friends. At one stroke Pelle had become the hero of the boy’s existence. He had shaved off his beard, had blackened his face, and had gone right into the camp of his opponents, and nothing could have been finer. He positively had to defend himself from being turned into a regular robber-captain with a wide-awake hat and top-boots! Lasse Frederik had a lively imagination!

Pelle had needed this victory. He must have his own people safely at his back first of all, and then have a thorough settlement of the past. But this was not easy, for little Boy Comfort staggered about everywhere, warped himself toward him from one piece of furniture to another with his serious eyes fixed steadily upon him, and crawled the last part of the way. Whenever he was set down, he instantly steered for Pelle; he would come crawling in right from the kitchen, and would not stop until he stood on his feet by Pelle’s leg, looking up at him. “See how fond he is of you already!” said Ellen tenderly, as she put him down in the middle of the floor to try him. “Take him up!” Pelle obeyed mechanically; he had no personal feeling for this child; it was indeed no child, but the accusation of a grown-up person that came crawling toward him. And there stood Ellen with as tender an expression as if it were her own baby! Pelle could not understand how it was that she did not despise him; he was ashamed whenever he thought of his struggle to reconcile himself to this “little cuckoo.” It was a good thing he had said so little!

His inability to be as naturally kind to the child as she was tormented him; and when, on Saturday evening, she had bathed Boy Comfort and then sat with him on her lap, putting on his clean clothes, Pelle was overwhelmed with self-accusation. He had thoughtlessly trodden little Marie of the “Ark” underfoot, and she whom he had cast off when she most needed him, in return passed her beneficent hand over his wrong-doing. As though she were aware of his gloomy thoughts, she went to him and placed the warm, naked child in his arms, saying with a gentle smile: “Isn’t he a darling?” Her heart was so large that he was almost afraid; she really took more interest in this child than in her own.

“I’m his mother, of course!” she said naturally. “You don’t suppose he can do without a real mother, do you?”

Marie’s fate lay like a shadow over Pelle’s mind. He had to talk to Ellen about it in order to try to dispel it, but she did not see the fateful connection; she looked upon it as something that had to be. “You were so hunted and persecuted,” she said quietly, “and you had no one to look to. So it had to happen like that. Marie told me all about it. It was no one’s fault that she was not strong enough to bear children. The doctor said there was a defect in her frame; she had an internal deformity.” Alas! Ellen did not know how much a human being should be able to help, and she herself took much more upon her than she need.

There was, nevertheless, something soothing in these sober facts, although they told him nothing about the real thing. It is impossible to bear for long the burden of the irreparable, and Pelle was glad that Ellen dwelt so constantly and naturally on Marie’s fate; it brought it within the range of ordinary things for him too. Marie had come to her when she could no longer hide her condition, and Ellen had taken her in and kept her until she went to the lying-in hospital. Marie knew quite well that she was going to die—she could feel it, as it were—and would sit and talk about it while she helped Ellen with her boot-sewing. She arranged everything as sensibly as an experienced mother.

“How old-fashioned she was, and yet so child-like!” Ellen would exclaim with emotion.

Pelle could not help thinking of his life in the “Ark” when little Marie kept house for him and her two brothers—a careful housekeeper of eleven years! She was deformed and yet had abundant possibilities within her; she resembled poverty itself. Infected by his young strength, she had shot up and unfolded into a fair maiden, at whom the young dandies turned to look when she went along the street to make her purchases. He had been anxious about her, alone and unprotected as she was; and yet it was he himself who had become the plunderer of the poor, defenceless girl. Why had he not carried his cross alone, instead of accepting the love of a being who gave herself to him in gratitude for his gift to her of the joy of life? Why had he been obliged, in a difficult moment, to take his gift back? Boy Comfort she had called her boy in her innocent goodness of heart, in order that Pelle should be really fond of him; but it was a dearly-bought Comfort that cost the life of another! For Pelle the child was almost an accusation.

There was much to settle up and some things that could not be arranged! Pelle sometimes found it burdensome enough to be responsible for himself.

About this time Morten was often in his thoughts. “Morten has disappointed me at any rate,” he thought; “he could not bear my prosperity!” This was a point on which Pelle had right upon his side! Morten must come to him if they were to have anything more to do with one another. Pelle bore no malice, but it was reasonable and just that the one who was on the top should first hold out his hand.

In this way he thought he had obtained rest from that question in any case, but it returned. He had taken the responsibility upon himself now, and was going to begin by sacrificing his only friend on a question of etiquette! He would have to go to him and hold out a hand of reconciliation!

This at last seemed to be a noble thought!

But Pelle was not allowed to feel satisfied with himself in this either. He was a prey to the same tormenting unrest that he had suffered in his cell, when he stole away from his work and sat reading secretly—he felt as if there were always an eye at the peephole, which saw everything that he did. He would have to go into the question once more.

That unselfish Morten envious? It was true he had not celebrated Pelle’s victory with a flourish of trumpets, but had preferred to be his conscience! That was really at the bottom of it. He had intoxicated himself in the noise, and wanted to find something with which to drown Morten’s quiet warning voice, and the accusation was not far to seek—envy! It was he himself, in fact, who had been the one to disappoint.

One day he hunted him up. Morten’s dwelling was not difficult to find out; he had acquired a name as an author, and was often mentioned in the papers in connection with the lower classes. He lived on the South Boulevard, up in an attic as usual, with a view over Kalvebod Strand and Amager.

“Why, is that you?” he said, taking Pelle’s hands in his and gazing into his stern, furrowed face until the tears filled his eyes. “I say, how you have changed!” he whispered half tearfully, and led him into his room.

“I suppose I have,” Pelle answered gloomily. “I’ve had good reason to, anyhow. And how have you been? Are you married?”

“No, I’m as solitary as ever. The one I want still doesn’t care about me, and the others I don’t want. I thought you’d thrown me over too, but you’ve come after all.”

“I had too much prosperity, and that makes you self-important.”

“Oh, well, it does. But in prison—why did you send my letters back? It was almost too hard.”

Pelle looked up in astonishment. “It would never have occurred to the prisoner that he could hurt anybody, so you do me an injustice there,” he said. “It was myself I wanted to punish!”

“You’ve been ill then, Pelle!”

“Yes, ill! You should only know what one gets like when they stifle your right to be a human being and shut you in between four bare walls. At one time I hated blindly the whole world; my brain reeled with trying to find out a really crushing revenge, and when I couldn’t hit others I helped to carry out the punishment upon myself. There was always a satisfaction in feeling that the more I suffered, the greater devils did it make the others appear. And I really did get a hit at them; they hated with all their hearts having to give me a transfer.”

“Wasn’t there any one there who could speak a comforting word—the chaplain, the teachers?”

Pelle smiled a bitter smile. “Oh, yes, the lash! The jailer couldn’t keep me under discipline; I was what they call a difficult prisoner. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but I had quite lost my balance. You might just as well expect a man to walk steadily when everything is whirling round him. They saw, I suppose, that I couldn’t come right by myself, so one day they tied me to a post, pulled my shirt up over my head and gave me a thrashing. It sounds strange, but that did it; the manner of procedure was so brutal that everything in me was struck dumb. When such a thing as that could happen, there was nothing more to protest against. They put a wet sheet round me and I was lifted onto my pallet, so that was all right. For a week I had to lie on my face and couldn’t move for the pain; the slightest movement made me growl like an animal. The strokes had gone right through me and could be counted on my chest; and there I lay like a lump of lead, struck down to the earth in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘This is what they do to human beings!’ I groaned inwardly; ‘this is what they do to human beings!’ I could no longer comprehend anything.”

Pelle’s face had become ashen gray; all the blood had left it, and the bones stood out sharply as in a dead face. He gulped two or three times to obtain control over his voice.

“I wonder if you understand what it means to get a thrashing!” he said hoarsely. “Fire’s nothing; I’d rather be burnt alive than have it again. The fellow doesn’t beat; he’s not the least angry; nobody’s angry with you; they’re all so seriously grieved on your account. He places the strokes carefully down over your back as if he were weighing out food, almost as if he were fondling you. But your lungs gasp at each stroke and your heart beats wildly; it’s as if a thousand pincers were tearing all your fibers and nerves apart at once. My very entrails contracted in terror, and seemed ready to escape through my throat every time the lash fell. My lungs still burn when I think of it, and my heart will suddenly contract as if it would send the blood out through my throat. Do you know what the devilish part of corporal punishment is? It’s not the bodily pain that they inflict upon the culprit; it’s his inner man they thrash—his soul. While I lay there brooding over my mutilated spirit, left to lick my wounds like a wounded animal, I realized that I had been in an encounter with the evil conscience of Society, the victim of their hatred of those who suffer.”

“Do you remember what gave occasion to the punishment?” Morten asked, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“It was some little thing or other—I think I called out. The solitude and the terrible silence got upon my nerves, and I suppose I shouted to make a little life in the horrible emptiness. I don’t remember very clearly, but I think that was my crime.”

“You’d have been the better anyhow for a kind word from a friend.” Morten was still thinking of his despised letters.

“Yes, but the atmosphere of a cell is not suited for friendly relations with the outside world. You get to hate all who are at liberty—those who mean well by you too—and you chop off even the little bit of branch you’re sitting on. Perhaps I should never have got into touch with life again if it hadn’t been for the mice in my cell. I used to put crumbs of bread down the grating for them, and when I lay there half dead and brooding, they ran squeaking over my hand. It was a caress anyhow, even if it wasn’t from fellow-men.”

Morten lived in a small two-roomed flat in the attics. While they sat talking, a sound came now and then from the other room, and each time a nervous look came into Morten’s face, and he glanced in annoyance at the closed door. Gradually he became quite restless and his attention was fixed on these sounds. Pelle wondered at it, but asked no questions.

Suddenly there came the sound of a chair being overturned. Morten rose quickly and went in, shutting the door carefully behind him. Pelle heard low voices—Morten’s admonishing, and a thin, refractory, girlish voice. “He’s got a girl hidden in there,” thought Pelle. “I’d better be off.”

He rose and looked out of the large attic window. How everything had changed since he first came to the capital and looked out over it from Morten’s old lodging! In those days he had had dreams of conquering it, and had carried out his plan too; and now he could begin from the beginning! An entirely new city lay spread out beneath him. Where he had once run about among wharves and coal-bunkers, there now stood a row of palatial buildings with a fine boulevard. And everything outside was new; a large working-men’s district had sprung up where there had once been timber-yards or water. Below him engines were drawing rows of trucks filled with ballast across the site for the new goods-station yard; and on the opposite side of the harbor a new residential and business quarter had grown up on the Iceland Quay. And behind it all lay the water and the green land of Amager. Morten had had the sense to select a high branch for himself like the nightingales.

He had got together a good number of books again, and on his writing-table stood photographs of well-known men with autograph inscriptions. To all appearances he seemed to make his way in the world of books. Pelle took down some of Morten’s own works, and turned over their leaves with interest. He seemed to hear Morten’s earnest voice behind the printed words. He would begin to read him now!

Morten came in. “You’re not going, are you?” he asked, drawing his hand across his forehead. “Do stay a little while and we’ll have a good talk. You can’t think how I’ve missed you!” He looked tired.

“I’m looking forward tremendously to reading your books,” said Pelle enthusiastically. “What a lot you’ve written! You haven’t given that up.”

“Perhaps solitude’s taught you too to like books,” said Morten, looking at him. “If so, you’ve made some good friends in there, Pelle. All that there isn’t worth much; it’s only preliminary work. It’s a new world ours, you must remember.”

“I don’t think The Working Man cares much about you.”

“No, not much,” answered Morten slowly.

“They say you only write in the upper-class papers.”

“If I didn’t I should starve. They don’t grudge me my food, at any rate! Our own press still has no use for skirmishers, but only for men who march to order!”

“And it’s very difficult for you to subordinate yourself to any one,” said Pelle, smiling.

“I have a responsibility to those above me,” answered Morten proudly. “If I give the blind man eyes to see into the future, I can’t let myself be led by him. Now and then The Working Man gets hold of one of my contributions to the upper-class press: that’s all the connection I have with my own side. My food I have to get from the other side of the boundary, and lay my eggs there: they’re pretty hard conditions. You can’t think how often I’ve worried over not being able to speak to my own people except in roundabout ways. Well, it doesn’t matter! I can afford to wait. There’s no way of avoiding the son of my father, and in the meantime I’m doing work among the upper classes. I bring the misery into the life of the happily-situated, and disturb their quiet enjoyment. The upper classes must be prepared for the revolution too.”

“Can they stand your representations?” asked Pelle, in surprise.

“Yes, the upper classes are just as tolerant as the common people were before they rose: it’s an outcome of culture. Sometimes they’re almost too tolerant; you can’t quite vouch for their words. When there’s something they don’t like, they always get out of it by looking at it from an artistic point of view.”

“How do you mean?”

“As a display, as if you were acting for their entertainment. ‘It’s splendidly done,’ they say, when you’ve laid bare a little of the boundless misery. ‘It’s quite Russian. Of course it’s not real at all, at any rate not here at home.’ But you always make a mark on some one or other, and little by little the food after all becomes bitter to their taste, I think. Perhaps some day I shall be lucky enough to write in such a way about the poor that no one can leave them out. But you yourself—what’s your attitude toward matters? Are you disappointed?”

“Yes, to some extent. In prison, in my great need, I left the fulfilment of the time of prosperity to you others. All the same, a great change has taken place.”

“And you’re pleased with it?”

“Everything has become dearer,” said Pelle slowly, “and unemployment seems on the way to become permanent.”

Morten nodded. “That’s the answer capital gives,” he said. “It multiplies every rise in wages by two, and puts it back on the workmen again. The poor man can’t stand very many victories of that kind.”

“Almost the worst thing about it is the development of snobbery. It seems to me that our good working classes are being split up into two—the higher professions, which will be taken up into the upper classes; and the proletariat, which will be left behind. The whole thing has been planned on too small a scale for it to get very far.”

“You’ve been out and seen something of the world, Pelle,” said Morten significantly. “You must teach others now.”

“I don’t understand myself,” answered Pelle evasively, “and I’ve been in prison. But what about you?”

“I’m no good as a rallier; you’ve seen that yourself. They don’t care about me. I’m too far in advance of the great body of them, and have no actual connection—you know I’m really terribly lonely! Perhaps, though, I’m destined to reach the heights before you others, and if I do I’ll try to light a beacon up there for you.”

Morten sat silent for a little while, and then suddenly lifted his head.

“But you must, Pelle!” he said. “You say you’re not the right man, but there’s simply no one but you. Have you forgotten that you fired the Movement, that you were its simple faith? They one and all believed in you blindly like children, and were capable of nothing when you gave up. Why, it’s not you, but the others—the whole Movement—who’ve been imprisoned! How glad I am that you’ve come back full of the strength gained there! You were smaller than you are now, Pelle, and even then something happened; now you may be successful even in great things.”

Pelle sat and listened in the deepening twilight, wondering with a pleased embarrassment. It was Morten who was nominating him—the severe, incorruptible Morten, who had always before been after him like his evil conscience.

“No, I’m going to be careful now,” he said, “and it’s your own fault, Morten. You’ve gone and pricked my soul, and I’m awake now; I shan’t go at anything blindly again. I have a feeling that what we two are joining in is the greatest thing the world has ever seen. It reaches further into the future than I can see, and so I’m working on myself. I study the books now—I got into the way of that in prison—and I must try to get a view out over the world. Something strange too has happened to me: I understand now what you meant when you said that man was holy! I’m no longer satisfied with being a small part of the whole, but think I must try to become a whole world by myself. It sounds foolish, but I feel as if I were in one of the scales and the rest of the world in the other; and until I can send the other scale up, I can’t think of putting myself at the head of the multitude.”

Evening had closed in before they were aware of it. The electric light from the railway-station yard threw its gleam upon the ceiling of the attic room and was reflected thence onto the two men who sat leaning forward in the half-darkness, talking quietly. Neither of them noticed that the door to the other room had opened, and a tall, thin girl stood on the threshold gazing at them with dilated pupils. She was in her chemise only, and it had slipped from one thin shoulder; and her feet were bare. The chemise reached only to her knees, leaving exposed a pair of sadly emaciated legs. A wheezing sound accompanied her breathing.

Pelle had raised his head to say something, but was silent at sight of the lean, white figure, which stood looking at him with great eyes that seemed to draw the darkness into them. The meeting with Morten had put him into an expectant frame of mind. He still had the call sounding in his ears, and gazed in amazement at the ghostly apparition. The delicate lines, spoiled by want, the expression of childlike terror of the dark—all this twofold picture of wanness stamped with the stamp of death, and of an unfulfilled promise of beauty—was it not the ghost of poverty, of wrong and oppression, a tortured apparition sent to admonish him? Was his brain failing? Were the horrible visions of the darkness of his cell returning? “Morten!” he whispered, touching his arm.

Morten sprang up. “Why, Johanna! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” he exclaimed reproachfully. He tried to make the girl go back into the other room, and to close the door; but she pushed past him out into the room.

“I will see him!” she cried excitedly. “If you don’t let me, I shall run away! He’s hidden my clothes,” she said to Pelle, gazing at him with her sunken eyes. “But I can easily run away in my chemise. I don’t care!” Her voice was rough and coarse from the damp air of the back yards.

“Now go back to bed, Johanna!” said Morten more gently.

“Remember what the doctor said. You’ll catch cold and it’ll all be wasted.”

“What do I care!” she answered, breaking into a coarse laugh. “You needn’t waste anything on me; I’ve had no children by you.” She was trembling with cold, but remained obstinately standing, and answered Morten’s remonstrances with a torrent of abusive epithets. At last he gave it up and sat down wearily. The two men sat and looked at her in silence.

The child was evidently uncomfortable at the cessation of resistance, and became confused beneath their silent gaze. She tossed her head and looked defiantly from the one to the other, her eyes glowing with an unnatural brightness. Suddenly she sank upon the floor and began to cry.

“This won’t do,” said Pelle gravely.

“I can’t manage her,” answered Morten hopelessly, “but you are strong enough.”

Pelle stooped and took her up in his arms. She kicked and bit him. “She’s got a fit,” he said to Morten. “We must take her out to the pump.” She instantly became quiet and let him carry her to bed. The fever was raging in her, and he noticed how her body was racked with every breath she drew; it sounded like a leaky pump.

When Morten, with a few kind words, covered her up, she began to weep convulsively, but turned her face to the wall and stuffed the quilt into her mouth in order to hide it. She gradually became quieter and at last fell asleep; and the two men stole out of the room and closed the door after them.

Morten looked tired out, for he was still not strong. “I’ve let myself in for something that I’m not equal to,” he said despondently.

“Who is the poor child?” asked Pelle softly.

“I don’t know. She came to me this spring, almost dead drunk and in a fearful state; and the next day she regretted it and went off, but I got hold of her again. She’s one of those poor creatures who have no other home than the big timber-yards, and there she’s made a living by going from one to another of the bigger lads. I can get nothing out of her, but I’ve found out in other ways that she’s lived among timber-stacks and in cellars for at least two years. The boys enticed dissolute men out there and sold her, taking most of the money themselves and giving her spirits to encourage her. From what I can make out there are whole organized bands which supply the dissolute men of the city with boys and girls. It makes one sick to think of it! The child must be an orphan, but won’t, as I said, tell me anything. Once or twice I’ve heard her talk in her sleep of her grandmother; but when I’ve referred to it, she sulks and won’t speak.”

“Does she drink?” asked Pelle.

Morten nodded. “I’ve had some bad times with her on that account,” he said. “She shows incredible ingenuity when it’s a case of getting hold of liquor. At first she couldn’t eat hot food at all, she was in such a state. She’s altogether fearfully shattered in soul and body, and causes me much trouble.”

“Why don’t you get her into some home?”

“Our public institutions for the care of children are not calculated to foster life in a down-trodden plant, and you’ll not succeed with Johanna by punishment and treatment like any ordinary child. At times she’s quite abnormally defiant and unmanageable, and makes me altogether despair; and then when I’m not looking, she lies and cries over herself. There’s much good in her in spite of everything, but she can’t let it come out. I’ve tried getting her into a private family, where I knew they would be kind to her; but not many days had passed before they came and said she’d run away. For a couple of weeks she wandered about, and then came back again to me. Late one evening when I came home, I found her sitting wet and shivering in the dark corner outside my door. I was quite touched, but she was angry because I saw her, and bit and kicked as she did just now. I had to carry her in by force. Her unhappy circumstances have thrown her quite off her balance, and I at any rate can’t make her out. So that’s how matters stand. I sleep on the sofa in here, but of course a bachelor’s quarters are not exactly arranged for this. There’s a lot of gossip too among the other lodgers.”

“Does that trouble you?” asked Pelle in surprise.

“No, but the child, you see—she’s terribly alive to that sort of thing. And then she doesn’t comprehend the circumstances herself. She’s only about eleven or twelve, and yet she’s already accustomed to pay for every kindness with her weak body. Can’t you imagine how dreadful it is to look into her wondering eyes? The doctor says she’s been injured internally and is probably tuberculous too; he thinks she’ll never get right. And her soul! What an abyss for a child! For even one child to have such a fate is too much, and how many there are in the hell in which we live!”

They were both silent for a little while, and then Morten rose. “You mustn’t mind if I ask you to go,” he said, “but I must get to work; there’s something I’ve got to finish this evening. You won’t mind, will you? Come and see me again as soon as you can, and thanks for coming this time!” he said as he pressed Pelle’s hand.

“I’d like you to keep your eyes open,” he said as he followed him to the door. “Perhaps you could help me to find out the history of the poor thing. You know a lot of poor people, and must have come in some way or other into her life, for I can see it in her. Didn’t you notice how eager she was to have a look at you? Try to find out about it, will you?”

Pelle promised, but it was more easily said than done. When his thoughts searched the wide world of poverty to which he had drawn so close during the great lock-out, he realized that there were hundreds of children who might have suffered Johanna’s fate.