Father Lasse!

He did not know why, but it wrung a sob from him; it took him so
unawares. "Hold your row!" cried the journeyman threateningly. Pelle
was greatly concerned; he had not once made the attempt to go over
and see Lasse.

The young master came to get something off the shelf above his head,
and leaned confidentially on Pelle's shoulder, his weak leg hanging
free and dangling. He stood there loitering for a time, staring at
the sky outside, and this warm hand on Pelle's shoulder quieted him.

But there could be no talk of enjoyment when he thought where
good Father Lasse was. He had not seen his father since that sunny
morning when he himself had gone away and left the old man to his
loneliness. He had not heard of him; he had scarcely given a thought
to him. He had to get through the day with a whole skin, and to
adapt himself to the new life; a whole new world was before him,
in which he had to find his feet. Pelle had simply had no time;
the town had swallowed him.

But at this moment his conduct confronted him as the worst example
of unfaithfulness the world had ever known. And his neck continued
to hurt him--he must go somewhere or other where no one would look
at him. He made a pretence of having to do something in the yard
outside; he went behind the washhouse, and he crouched down by the
woodpile beside the well.

There he lay, shrinking into himself, in the blackest despair at