Ditte burst into laughter at his confusion when the old woman did not accept it. "Why, Granny's blind!" she said, bubbling over with mirth.
"Oh, that's it? Then it's hardly to be expected that you could see," he said, taking the old woman's hand. "Well, I'm your son-in-law, there's news for you." His voice rang with good-humor.
Maren quickly raised her head. "Which of the girls is it?" asked she.
"The mother of this young one," answered he, aiming at Ditte with his big battered hat. "It's not what you might call legal yet; we've done without the parson till he's needed--so much comes afore that. But a house and a home we've got, though poor it may be. We live a good seven miles inland on the other side of the common--on the _sand_--folks call it the 'Crow's Nest'!"
"And what's your name?" asked Maren again.
The old woman considered for a while, then shook her head. "I've never heard of you."
"My father was called the hangman. Maybe you know me now?"
"Ay, 'tis a known name--if not of the best."
"Folks can't always choose their own names, or character either, and must just be satisfied with a clear conscience. But as I was passing I thought I'd just look in and see you. When we're having the parson to give us his blessing, Sörine and me, I'll come with the trap and fetch the two of you to church. That's if you don't care to move down to us at once--seems like that would be best."
"Did Sörine send the message?" asked Maren suspiciously.
Lars Peter Hansen mumbled something, which might be taken for either yes or no.
"Ay, I thought so, you hit on it yourself, and thanks to you for your kindness; but we'd better stay where we are. Though we'd like to go to the wedding. 'Tis eight children I've brought into the world, and nigh all married now, but I've never been asked to a wedding afore." Maren became thoughtful. "And what's your trade?" she asked soon after.
"I hawk herrings--and anything else to be got. Buy rags and bones too when folks have any."
"You can hardly make much at that--for folks wear their rags as long as there's a thread left--and there's few better off than that. Or maybe they're more well-to-do in other places?"
"Nay, 'tis the same there as here, clothes worn out to the last thread, and bones used until they crumble," answered the man with a laugh. "But a living's to be made."