At the side of the goat there was kneeling a little girl.

"Is this goat yours?" asked she.

Oyvind opened wide his mouth and eyes, thrust both hands into his pants
and said,--

"Who are you?"

"I am Marit, mother's young one, father's fiddle, the hulder of the
house, granddaughter to Ola Nordistuen of the Heidegards, four years
old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights--I am!"

"Is that who you are?" cried he, drawing a long breath, for he had not
ventured to take one while she was speaking.

"Is this goat yours?" she again inquired.

"Ye-es!" replied he, raising his eyes.

"I have taken such a liking to the goat;--you will not give it to me?"

"No, indeed I will not."

She lay kicking up her heels and staring down at him, and presently she
said: "But if I give you a twisted bun for the goat, can I have it
then?"

Oyvind was the son of poor people; he had tasted twisted bun only once
in his life, that was when grandfather came to his house, and he had