Pelle felt that he was making headway; and he was conscious of his own youth. He was continually in the rosiest of humors, and even Hanne could not throw any real shadow over his existence. In his relations with her there was something of a beautiful unreality; they left no permanent scar upon his heart.
He felt quite simply ashamed in the presence of this much tried child, whenever something cropped up to put him out of temper. He felt it was his duty to brighten her poverty-stricken life with his high spirits. He chatted merrily to her, chaffed her, teased her, to charm her from her unnatural solemnity. And she would smile, in her quiet, motherly fashion, as one smiles at a much-loved child who seeks to drive away our cares—and would then offer to do something for him.
“Shall I wash out your blouse or do up your shirt?” she would ask. Her gratitude always found its expression in some kind of work.
“No, thanks, Marie; Hanne and her mother look after that.”
“But that’s not work for the Princess—I can do it much better.”
“The Princess?” said Pelle, raising his head. “Is that what they call her?”
“Only us children—we don’t mean it unkindly. But we always played at there being a princess when she was with us—and she was always the princess. But do you know what? Some one will come and take her away— some one very distinguished. She has been promised from the cradle to a fine gentleman.”
“But that’s really true! When it rained we used to sit under the gallery—in the corner by the dustbin—and she used to tell us—and it’s really true! And, besides, don’t you think she’s fascinating? She’s really just like a princess—like that!” Marie made a gesture in the air with her fingers outspread. “And she knows everything that is going to happen. She used to run down to us, in the courtyard, in her long dress, and her mother used to stand up above and call her; then she’d sit on the grating as if it was a throne and she was the queen and we were her ladies. She used to braid our hair, and then dress it beautifully with colored ribbons, and when I came up here again mother used to tear it all down and make my hair rough again. It was a sin against God to deck one’s self out like that, she said. And when mother disappeared I hadn’t time to play down there any more.”