Nanna blushed so deeply that she felt the blood burning her cheeks, as
she advanced the opinion that the exercise might prove injurious to him.

"Poor child, you are grieved on account of your old father. I will take
your advice. Bring my arm-chair out, and we will sit here and have a
little chat together."

Hitherto, when her father had chatted to her of all that he had seen and
experienced, Nanna had considered herself amply rewarded for her days of
labor, but on this occasion, she not only went after the chair
reluctantly, but also, when she as usual seated herself with her
knitting work on her little bench at his side she sighed deeply. Her
father did not observe her dejection, perhaps he considered it an
impossibility for his precious jewel to sigh when she was with him.

"Well, Nanna," said he stroking his long beard which gave a venerable
appearance to his benevolent features, "are you thinking of the fine
shawl that Ragnar is to send you by his friend Jon Jonson?"

"Not at all, dear father," replied Nanna.

"True," continued the old man, "your disposition in that respect does
not resemble Magde's. She is pleased, as every young woman should be,
when she has an opportunity of decorating her person with elegant
clothing."

"I think, that hereafter," said Nanna, slightly confused, "I shall also
cultivate a taste for such things; but thus far I have had but little
opportunity."