But Isak's fingers were rough; they stuck in the curious silky stuff.

Now Inger had no more things to show. But when she had packed them all
up again, she sat there still; and the way she sat, he could see her
legs, could see her red-bordered stockings.

"H'm," said he. "Those'll be town-made things, I doubt?"

"'Tis wool was bought in the town, but I knitted them myself. They're
ever so long--right up above the knee--look...."

A little while after she heard herself whispering: "Oh, you ... you're
just the same--the same as ever!"

* * * * *

And after that halt they drove on again, and Inger sat up, holding the
reins. "I've brought a paper of coffee too," she said. "But you can't
have any this evening, for it's not roasted yet."

"'Tis more than's needed this evening and all," said he.

An hour later the sun goes down, and it grows colder. Inger gets down
to walk. Together they tuck the rug closer about Leopoldine, and smile
to see how soundly she can sleep. Man and wife talk together again on
their way. A pleasure it is to hear Inger's voice; none could speak
clearer than Inger now.

"Wasn't it four cows we had?" she asks.