opposition. They all turned towards her with "Dear Mrs Mortensen"; but she was not to be cowed, and repeated her words with conviction; and added that she certainly could not imagine how people could endure to live, even for a week, in such a babel and crowd.
In the meantime, the thin, shy, little Mrs Aggerbölle sat silently looking before her with an absent and worried expression, as if her thoughts were still with her home and children. She sat with her hands on her lap, looking ready to faint from fatigue and night watching. It looked as if she had carefully sought out a place behind Mrs Mortensen's large person, so that the evening light should not fall too cruelly upon her prematurely aged features and faded silk gown—the old-fashioned cut of which, and the far too roomy bodice, bore sorrowful witness to bygone youthful charms. Now and then she glanced fearfully at her husband, who stood in a defiant attitude by the stove, as if disclaiming all knowledge of the smell of benzine which emanated from his shiny dress coat, and diffused itself all over that part of the room where he stood. He had only come home late in the afternoon from a peasant christening-feast in a neighbouring parish. Reminiscences of the night's carouse were plainly visible on the beardless parts of his face, in the shape of dark red patches, showing that the child had not been christened with water alone.
The young assistant teacher, Johansen, stood
