In his loneliness Pelle had often taken his way to the little house by the cemetery, where Due lived in two little rooms. It was always a sort of consolation to see familiar faces, but in other respects he did not gain much by his visits; Due was pleasant enough, but Anna thought of nothing but herself, and how she could best get on. Due had a situation as coachman at a jobmaster's, and they seemed to have a sufficiency.

"We have no intention of being satisfied with driving other people's horses," Anna would say, "but you must crawl before you can walk." She had no desire to return to the country.

"Out there there's no prospects for small people, who want something more than groats in their belly and a few rags on their back. You are respected about as much as the dirt you walk on, and there's no talk of any future. I shall never regret that we've come away from the country."

Due, on the contrary, was homesick. He was quite used to knowing that there was a quarter of a mile between him and the nearest neighbor, and here he could hear, through the flimsy walls, whether his neighbors were kissing, fighting, or counting their money. "It is so close here, and then I miss the earth; the pavements are so hard."

"He misses the manure—he can't come treading it into the room," said Anna, in a superior way; "for that was the only thing there was plenty of in the country. Here in the town too the children can get on better; in the country poor children can't learn anything that'll help them to amount to something; they've got to work for their daily bread. It's bad to be poor in the country!"

"It's worse here in town," said Pelle bitterly, "for here only those who dress finely amount to anything!"

"But there are all sorts of ways here by which a man can earn money, and if one way doesn't answer, he can try another. Many a man has come into town with his naked rump sticking out of his trousers, and now he's looked up to! If a man's only got the will and the energy —well, I've thought both the children ought to go to the municipal school, when they are older; knowledge is never to be despised."

"Why not Marie as well?" asked Pelle.

"She? What? She's not fitted to learn anything. Besides, she's only a girl."

Anna, like her brother Alfred, had set herself a lofty goal. Her eyes were quite bright when she spoke of it, and it was evidently her intention to follow it regardless of consequences. She was a loud-voiced, capable woman with an authoritative manner; Due simply sat by and smiled and kept his temper. But in his inmost heart, according to report, he knew well enough what he wanted. He never went to the public-house, but came straight home after work; and in the evening he was never happier than when all three children were scrambling over him. He made no distinction between his own two youngsters and the six-year-old Marie, whom Anna had borne before she married him.

Pelle was very fond of little Marie, who had thrived well enough so long as her child-loving grandparents had had her, but now she was thin and had stopped growing, and her eyes were too experienced. She gazed at one like a poor housewife who is always fretted and distressed, and Pelle was sorry for her. If her mother was harsh to her, he always remembered that Christmastide evening when he first visited his Uncle Kalle, and when Anna, weeping and abashed, had crept into the house, soon to be a mother. Little Anna, with the mind of a merry child, whom everybody liked. What had become of her now?

One evening, as Morten was not at liberty, he ran thither. Just as he was on the point of knocking, he heard Anna storming about indoors; suddenly the door flew open and little Marie was thrown out upon the footpath. The child was crying terribly.

"What's the matter, then?" asked Pelle, in his cheerful way.

"What's the matter? The matter is that the brat is saucy and won't eat just because she doesn't get exactly the same as the others. Here one has to slave and reckon and contrive—and for a bad girl like that! Now she's punishing herself and won't eat. Is it anything to her what the others have? Can she compare herself with them? She's a bastard brat and always will be, however you like to dress it up!"

"She can't help that!" said Pelle angrily.

"Can't help it! Perhaps I can help it? Is it my fault that she didn't come into the world a farmer's daughter, but has to put up with being a bastard? Yes, you may believe me, the neighbors' wives tell me to my face she hasn't her father's eyes, and they look at me as friendly as a lot of cats! Am I to be punished all my life, perhaps, because I looked a bit higher, and let myself be led astray in a way that didn't lead to anything? Ah, the little monster!" And she clenched her fists and shook them in the direction from which the child's crying could still be heard.

"Here one goes and wears oneself out to keep the house tidy and to be respectable, and then no one will treat me as being as good as themselves, just because once I was a bit careless!" She was quite beside herself.

"If you aren't kind to little Marie, I shall tell Uncle Kalle," said Pelle warningly.

She spat contemptuously. "Then you can tell him. Yes, I wish to
God you'd do it! Then he'd come and take her away, and delighted
I should be!"

But now Due was heard stamping on the flags outside the door, and they could hear him too consoling the child. He came in holding her by the hand, and gave his wife a warning look, but said nothing. "There, there—now all that's forgotten," he repeated, in order to check the child's sobs, and he wiped away the grimy tears from her cheeks with his great thumbs.

Anna brought him his food, sulkily enough, and out in the kitchen she muttered to herself. Due, while he ate his supper of bacon and black bread, stood the child between his knees and stared at her with round eyes. "Rider!" she said, and smiled persuasively. "Rider!" Due laid a cube of bacon on a piece of bread.

"There came a rider riding
On his white hoss, hoss, hoss, hoss!"

he sang, and he made the bread ride up to her mouth. "And then?"

"Then, pop he rode in at the gate!" said the child, and swallowed horse and rider.

While she ate she kept her eyes fixed upon him unwaveringly, with that painful earnestness which was so sad to see. But sometimes it happened that the rider rode right up to her mouth, and then, with a jerk, turned about, and disappeared, at a frantic gallop, between Due's white teeth. Then she smiled for a moment.

"There's really no sense shoving anything into her," said Anna, who was bringing coffee in honor of the visitor. "She gets as much as she can eat, and she's not hungry."

"She's hungry, all the same!" hummed Due.

"Then she's dainty—our poor food isn't good enough for her. She takes after her father, I can tell you! And what's more, if she isn't naughty now she soon will be when once she sees she's backed up."

Due did not reply. "Are you quite well again now?" he asked, turning to Pelle.

"What have you been doing to-day?" asked Anna, filling her husband's long pipe.

"I had to drive a forest ranger from up yonder right across the whole of the moor. I got a krone and a half for a tip."

"Give it to me, right away!"

Due passed her the money, and she put it into an old coffeepot. "This evening you must take the bucket to the inspector's," she said.

Due stretched himself wearily. "I've been on the go since half-past four this morning," he said.

"But I've promised it faithfully, so there's nothing else to be done.
And then I thought you'd see to the digging for them this autumn;
you can see when we've got the moonlight, and then there's Sundays.
If we don't get it some one else will—and they are good payers."

Due did not reply.

"In a year or two from now, I'm thinking, you'll have your own horses and won't need to go scraping other people's daily bread together," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "Won't you go right away and take the bucket? Then it's done. And I must have some small firewood cut before you go to bed."

Due sat there wearily blinking. After eating, fatigue came over him. He could hardly see out of his eyes, so sleepy was he. Marie handed him his cap, and at last he got on his legs. He and Pelle went out together.

The house in which Due lived lay far up the long street, which ran steeply down to the sea. It was an old watercourse, and even now when there was a violent shower the water ran down like a rushing torrent between the poor cottages.

Down on the sea-road they met a group of men who were carrying lanterns in their hands; they were armed with heavy sticks, and one of them wore an old leather hat and carried a club studded with spikes. This was the night-watch. They moved off, and behind them all went the new policeman, Pihl, in his resplendent uniform. He kept well behind the others, in order to show off his uniform, and also to ensure that none of the watch took to their heels. They were half drunk, and were taking their time; whenever they met any one they stood still and related with much detail precisely why they had taken the field. The "Great Power" was at his tricks again. He had been refractory all day, and the provost had given the order to keep an eye on him. And quite rightly, for in his cups he had met Ship- owner Monsen, on Church Hill, and had fallen upon him with blows and words of abuse: "So you take the widow's bread out of her mouth, do you? You told her the Three Sisters was damaged at sea, and you took over her shares for next to nothing, did you? Out of pure compassion, eh, you scoundrel? And there was nothing the matter with the ship except that she had done only too well and made a big profit, eh? So you did the poor widow a kindness, eh?" A scoundrel, he called him and at every question he struck him a blow, so that he rolled on the ground. "We are all witnesses, and now he must go to prison. A poor stone-cutter oughtn't to go about playing the judge. Come and help us catch him, Due—you are pretty strong!"

"It's nothing to do with me," said Due.

"You do best to keep your fingers out of it," said one of the men derisively; "you might get to know the feel of his fist." And they went on, laughing contemptuously.

"They won't be so pleased with their errand when they've done," said Due, laughing. "That's why they've got a nice drop stowed away— under their belts. To give them courage. The strong man's a swine, but I'd rather not be the one he goes for."

"Suppose they don't get him at all!" said Pelle eagerly.

Due laughed. "They'll time it so that they are where he isn't. But why don't he stick to his work and leave his fool's tricks alone? He could have a good drink and sleep it off at home—he's only a poor devil, he ought to leave it to the great people to drink themselves silly!"

But Pelle took another view of the affair. The poor man of course ought to go quietly along the street and take his hat off to everybody; and if anybody greeted him in return he'd be quite proud, and tell it to his wife as quite an event, as they were going to bed. "The clerk raised his hat to me to-day—yes, that he did!" But Stonecutter Jorgensen looked neither to right nor to left when he was sober, and in his cups he trampled everybody underfoot.

Pelle by no means agreed with the pitiful opinions of the town. In the country, whence he came, strength was regarded as everything, and here was a man who could have taken strong Erik himself and put him in his pocket. He roamed about in secret, furtively measuring his wrists, and lifted objects which were much too heavy for him; he would by no means have objected to be like the "Great Power," who, as a single individual, kept the whole town in a state of breathless excitement, whether he was in one of his raging moods or whether he lay like one dead. The thought that he was the comrade of Jens and Morten made him quite giddy, and he could not understand why they bowed themselves so completely to the judgment of the town, as no one could cast it in their teeth that they were on the parish, but only that their father was a powerful fellow.

Jens shrank from continually hearing his father's name on all lips, and avoided looking people in the eyes, but in Morten's open glance he saw no trace of this nameless grief.

One evening, when matters were quite at their worst, they took Pelle home with them. They lived in the east, by the great clay-pit, where the refuse of the town was cast away. Their mother was busy warming the supper in the oven, and in the chimney-corner sat a shrivelled old grandmother, knitting. It was a poverty-stricken home.

"I really thought that was father," said the woman, shivering.
"Has any of you heard of him?"

The boys related what they had heard; some one had seen him here, another there. "People are only too glad to keep us informed," said Jens bitterly.

"Now it's the fourth evening that I've warmed up his supper to no purpose," the mother continued. "Formerly he used to take care to look in at home, however much they were after him—but he may come yet."

She tried to smile hopefully, but suddenly threw her apron in front of her eyes and burst into tears. Jens went about with hanging head, not knowing what he ought to do; Morten put his arm behind the weary back and spoke soothingly: "Come, come; it isn't worse than it has often been!" And he stroked the projecting shoulder-blades.

"No, but I did feel so glad that it was over. A whole year almost he never broke out, but took his food quietly when he came home from work, and then crawled into bed. All that time he broke nothing; he just slept and slept; at last I believed he had become weak-minded, and I was glad for him, for he had peace from those terrible ideas. I believed he had quieted down after all his disgraces, and would take life as it came; as the rest of his comrades do. And now he's broken out again as audacious as possible, and it's all begun over again!" She wept desolately.

The old woman sat by the stove, her shifting glance wandering from one to another; she was like a crafty bird of prey sitting in a cage. Then her voice began, passionless and uninflected:

"You're a great donkey; now it's the fourth evening you've made pancakes for your vagabond; you're always at him, kissing and petting him! I wouldn't sweeten my husband's sleep if he had behaved so scandalously to his wife and family; he could go to bed and get up again hungry, and dry too, for all I cared; then he'd learn manners at last. But there's no grit in you—that's the trouble; you put up with all his sauciness."

"If I were to lay a stone in his way—why, who would be good to him, if his poor head wanted to lie soft? Grandmother ought to know how much he needs some one who believes in him. And there's nothing else I can do for him."

"Yes, yes; work away and wear yourself out, so that there's always something for the great fellow to smash if he has a mind to! But now you go to bed and lie down; I'll wait up for Peter and give him his food, if he comes; you must be half dead with weariness, you poor worm."

"There's an old proverb says, 'A man's mother is the devil's pother,' but it don't apply to you, grandmother," said the mother of the boys mildly. "You always take my part, although there's no need. But now you go to bed! It's far past your bed-time, and I'll look after Peter. It's so easy to manage him if only he knows that you mean well by him."

The old woman behaved as though she did not hear; she went on knitting. The boys remembered that they had brought something with them; a bag of coffee-beans, some sugar-candy, and a few rolls.

"You waste all your hard-earned shillings on me," said the mother reproachfully, and put the water to boil for the coffee, while her face beamed with gratitude.

"They've no young women to waste it on," said the old woman dryly.

"Grandmother's out of humor this evening," said Morten. He had taken off the old woman's glasses and looked smilingly into her gray eyes.

"Out of humor—yes, that I am! But time passes, I tell you, and here one sits on the edge of the grave, waiting for her own flesh and blood to get on and do something wonderful, but nothing ever happens! Energies are wasted—they run away like brook-water into the sea— and the years are wasted too—or is it lies I'm telling you? All want to be masters; no one wants to carry the sack; and one man seizes hold of another and clambers over him just to reach an inch higher. And there ought to be plenty in the house—but there's poverty and filth in every corner. I should think the dear God will soon have had enough of it all! Not an hour goes by but I curse the day when I let myself be wheedled away from the country; there a poor man's daily bread grows in the field, if he'll take it as it comes. But here he must go with a shilling in his fist, if it's only that he wants a scrap of cabbage for his soup. If you've money you can have it; if you haven't, you can leave it. Yes, that's how it is! But one must live in town in order to have the same luck as Peter! Everything promised splendidly, and I, stupid old woman, have always had a craving to see my own flesh and blood up at the top. And now I sit here like a beggar-princess! Oh, it has been splendid—I'm the mother of the biggest vagabond in town!"

"Grandmother shouldn't talk like that," said the mother of the boys.

"Yes, yes; but I'm sick of it all—and yet I can't think about dying! How can I go and lay me down—who would take a stick to Peter?—the strong man!" she said contemptuously.

"Grandmother had better go quietly and lie down; I can manage Peter best if I'm alone with him," said the wife, but the old woman did not move.

"Can't you get her to go, Morten?" whispered the mother. "You are the only one she will listen to."

Morten lectured the old woman until he had enticed her away; he had to promise to go with her and arrange the bedclothes over her feet.

"Now, thank goodness, we've got her out of the way!" said the mother, relieved. "I'm always so afraid that father might forget what he's doing when he's like he is now; and she doesn't think of giving in to him, so it's flint against flint. But now I think you ought to go where the rest of the young folks are, instead of sitting here and hanging your heads."

"We'll stay and see whether father comes," declared Morten.

"But what does it matter to you—you can say good-day to father at any time. Go now—listen—father prefers to find me alone when he's like this and comes home merry. Perhaps he takes me in his arms and swings me round—he's so strong—so that I feel as giddy as a young girl. 'Ho, heigh, wench, here's the "Great Power"!' he says, and he laughs as loud as he used to in his rowdy young days. Yes, when he's got just enough in him he gets as strong and jolly as ever he was in his very best days. I'm glad it's soon over. But that's not for you —you had better go." She looked at them appealingly, and shrank back as some one fumbled at the door. Out-of-doors it was terrible weather.

It was only the youngest, who had come home from her day's work. She might have been ten or twelve years old and was small for her age, although she looked older; her voice was harsh and strident, and her little body seemed coarsened and worn with work. There was not a spot about her that shed or reflected a single ray of light; she was like some subterranean creature that has strayed to the surface. She went silently across the room and let herself drop into her grandmother's chair; she leaned over to one side as she sat, and now and again her features contracted.

"She's got that mischief in her back," said the mother, stroking her thin, unlovely hair. "She got it always carrying the doctor's little boy—he's so tall and so heavy. But as long as the doctor says nothing, it can't be anything dangerous. Yes, you did really leave home too early, my child; but, after all, you get good food and you learn to be smart. And capable, that she is; she looks after the doctor's three children all by herself! The eldest is her own age, but she has to dress and undress her. Such grand children, they don't even learn how to do things for themselves!"

Pelle stared at her curiously. He himself had put up with a good deal, but to cripple himself by dragging children about, who were perhaps stronger than himself—no, no one need expect that of him! "Why do you carry the over-fed brat?" he asked.

"They must have some one to look after them," said the mother, "and their mother, who's the nearest to them, she doesn't feel inclined to do it. And they pay her for it."

"If it was me, I'd let the brat fall," said Pelle boldly.

The little girl just glanced at him with her dull eyes, and a feeble interest glimmered in them. But her face retained its frozen indifference, and it was impossible to say what she was thinking, so hard and experienced was her expression.

"You mustn't teach her anything naughty," said the mother; "she has enough to struggle against already; she's got an obstinate nature. And now you must go to bed, Karen"—she caressed her once more— "Father can't bear to see you when he's had too much. He's so fond of her," she added helplessly.

Karen drew away from the caress without the slightest change of expression; silently she went up to the garret where she slept. Pelle had not heard her utter a sound.

"That's how she is," said the mother, shivering. "Never a word to say 'good night'! Nothing makes any impression on her nowadays— neither good nor bad; she's grown up too soon. And I have to manage so that father doesn't see her when he's merry. He goes on like a wild beast against himself and everybody else when it comes across his mind how she's been put upon." She looked nervously at the clock. "But go now—do listen! You'll do me a great favor if you'll go!" She was almost crying.

Morten stood up, hesitating, and the others followed his example. "Pull your collars up and run," said the mother, and buttoned up their coats. The October gale was beating in gusts against the house, and the rain was lashing violently against the window-panes.

As they were saying good night a fresh noise was heard outside. The outer door banged against the wall, and they heard the storm burst in and fill the entry. "Ah, now it's too late!" lamented the mother reproachfully. "Why didn't you go sooner?" A monstrous breathing sounded outside, like the breathing of a gigantic beast, sniffing up and down at the crack of the door, and fumbling after the latch with its dripping paws. Jens wanted to run and open the door. "No, you mustn't do that!" cried his mother despairingly, and she pushed the bolt. She stood there, rigid, her whole body trembling. Pelle too began to shiver; he had a feeling that the storm itself was lying there in the entry like a great unwieldy being, puffing and snorting in a kind of gross content, and licking itself dry while it waited for them.

The woman bent her ear to the door, listening in frantic suspense.
"What is he up to now?" she murmured; "he is so fond of teasing!"
She was crying again. The boys had for the moment forgotten her.

Then the outer door was beaten in, and the monster got up on all four dripping paws, and began to call them with familiar growls. The woman turned about in her distress; waving her hands helplessly before her, and then clapping them to her face. But now the great beast became impatient; it struck the door sharply, and snarled warningly. The woman shrank back as though she herself were about to drop on all fours and answered him. "No, no!" she cried, and considered a moment. Then the door was burst in with one tremendous blow, and Master Bruin rolled over the threshold and leaped toward them in clumsy jumps, his head thrown somewhat backward as though wondering why his little comrade had not rushed to meet him, with an eager growl. "Peter, Peter, the boy!" she whispered, bending over him; but he pushed her to the floor with a snarl, and laid one heavy paw upon her. She tore herself away from him and escaped to a chair.

"Who am I?" he asked, in a stumbling, ghostly voice, confronting her.

"The great strong man!" She could not help smiling; he was ramping about in such a clumsy, comical way.

"And you?"

"The luckiest woman in all the world!" But now her voice died away in a sob.

"And where is the strong man to rest to-night?" He snatched at her breast.

She sprang up with blazing eyes. "You beast—oh, you beast!" she cried, red with shame, and she struck him in the face.

The "Great Power" wiped his face wonderingly after each blow. "We're only playing," he said. Then, in a flash, he caught sight of the boys, who had shrunk into a corner. "There you are!" he said, and he laughed crazily; "yes, mother and I, we're having a bit of a game! Aren't we, mother?"

But the woman had run out of doors, and now stood under the eaves, sobbing.

Jorgensen moved restlessly to and fro. "She's crying," he muttered. "There's no grit in her—she ought to have married some farmer's lad, devil take it, if the truth must be told! It catches me here and presses as though some one were shoving an iron ferrule into my brain. Come on, 'Great Power'! Come on! so that you can get some peace from it! I say every day. No, let be, I say then—you must keep a hold on yourself, or she just goes about crying! And she's never been anything but good to you! But deuce take it, if it would only come out! And then one goes to bed and says, Praise God, the day is done—and another day, and another. And they stand there and stare—and wait; but let them wait; nothing happens, for now the 'Great Power' has got control of himself! And then all at once it's there behind! Hit away! Eight in the thick of the heap! Send them all to hell, the scoundrels! 'Cause a man must drink, in order to keep his energies in check…. Well, and there she sits! Can one of you lend me a krone?"

"Not I!" said Jens.

"No, not you—he'd be a pretty duffer who'd expect anything from you! Haven't I always said 'he takes after the wrong side'? He's like his mother. He's got a heart, but he's incapable. What can you really do, Jens? Do you get fine clothes from your master, and does he treat you like a son, and will you finish up by taking over the business as his son-in-law? And why not? if I may ask the question. Your father is as much respected as Morten's."

"Morten won't be a son-in-law, either, if his master has no daughter," Jens muttered.

"No. But he might have had a daughter, hey? But there we've got an answer. You don't reflect. Morten, he's got something there!" He touched his forehead.

"Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head," retorted Jens sulkily.

"On the head—well! But the understanding has its seat in the head. That's where one ought to hammer it in. For what use would it be, I ask you, supposing you commit some stupidity with your head and I smack you on the behind? You don't need any understanding there? But it has helped—you've grown much smarter. That was no fool's answer you gave me just now: 'Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head!'" He nodded in acknowledgment. "No, but here is a head that can give them some trouble—there are knots of sense in this wood, hey?" And the three boys had to feel the top of his head.

He stood there like a swaying tree, and listened with a changing expression to the less frequent sobs of his wife; she was now sitting by the fire, just facing the door. "She does nothing but cry," he said compassionately; "that's a way the women have of amusing themselves nowadays. Life has been hard on us, and she couldn't stand hardships, poor thing! For example, if I were to say now that I'd like to smash the stove"—and here he seized a heavy chair and waved it about in the air—"then she begins to cry. She cries about everything. But if I get on I shall take another wife —one who can make a bit of a show. Because this is nonsense. Can she receive her guests and make fine conversation? Pah! What the devil is the use of my working and pulling us all out of the mud? But now I'm going out again—God knows, it ain't amusing here!"

His wife hurried across to him. "Ah, don't go out, Peter—stay here, do!" she begged.

"Am I to hang about here listening to you maundering on?" he asked sulkily, shrugging his shoulders. He was like a great, good-natured boy who gives himself airs.

"I won't maunder—I'm ever so jolly—if only you'll stay!" she cried, and she smiled through her tears. "Look at me—don't you see how glad I am? Stay with me, do, 'Great Power!'" She breathed warmly into his ear; she had shaken off her cares and pulled herself together, and was now really pretty with her glowing face.

The "Great Power" looked at her affectionately; he laughed stupidly, as though he was tickled, and allowed himself to be pulled about; he imitated her whisper to the empty air, and was overflowing with good humor. Then he slyly approached his mouth to her ear, and as she listened he trumpeted loudly, so that she started back with a little cry. "Do stay, you great baby!" she said, laughing. "I won't let you go; I can hold you!" But he shook her off, laughing, and ran out bareheaded.

For a moment it looked as though she would run after him, but then her hands fell, and she drooped her head. "Let him run off," she said wearily; "now things must go as they will. There's nothing to be done; I've never seen him so drunk. Yes, you look at me, but you must remember that he carries his drink differently to every one else—he is quite by himself in everything!" She said this with a certain air of pride. "And he has punished the shipowner—and even the judge daren't touch him. The good God Himself can't be more upright than he is."