looked at him mildly.

"Then run along and get me another. I've no money--you must say--
well, think it out for yourself; you've got a head." The master
looked at him with an expression which went to Pelle's heart, so
that he often felt like bursting into tears. Hitherto Pelle's life
had been spent on the straight highway; he did not understand this
combination of wit and misery, roguishness and deadly affliction.
But he felt something of the presence of the good God, and trembled
inwardly; he would have died for the young master.

When the weather was wet it was difficult for the sick man to get
about; the cold pulled him down. If he came into the workshop,
freshly washed and with his hair still wet, he would go over to the
cold stove, and stand there, stamping his feet. His cheeks had quite
fallen in. "I've so little blood for the moment," he said at such
times, "but the new blood is on the way; it sings in my ears every
night." Then he would be silent a while. "There, by my soul, we've
got a piece of lung again," he said, and showed Pelle, who stood at
the stove brushing shoes, a gelatinous lump. "But they grow again
afterward!"

"The master will soon be in his thirtieth year," said the
journeyman; "then the dangerous time is over."

"Yes, deuce take it--if only I can hang together so long--only
another six months," said the master eagerly, and he looked at Pelle,
as though Pelle had it in his power to help him; "only another six
months! Then the whole body renews itself--new lungs--everything new.
But new legs, God knows, I shall never get."