The fireplace was in the corner to the left, close by the door, and one can fancy how the two in there opened their eyes! To such an extent that curly-lock's head stretched up out of his father's wide blue linen shirt. The mother was tall and had a delicate face; she wore a black cap; her fair hair was puffed out down her cheeks and made her face seem long. She turned from her pots and pans toward the two arrivals, whom she knew both. It was a grave but friendly face. She seemed afraid and uncertain. Just at first she did not let her eyes rest on either of them. Ole's boots stood by the fireside; but his clothes, shirt, and stockings were hung up to dry above on some of the many poles that reached across from beam to beam. On the other poles were bundles of wood and various things put up to dry. Dishes and cups stood about just as usual on a weekday. The room was not painted but wainscoted; on each side under the windows there were red-painted benches. In the corner to the left, at the other side of the window, stood a table with a bookcase above; at the end of the table, just by the door into the smaller room, hung the clock. It ticked as evenly and cheerily as if there had never before been anything but peace in that room. Outside he saw the kittens in the sledge, the one inside sticking its paw out through the railing, and the outside one pushing its paw in; and then he saw Ole's face just in front of him. He was smiling, was Ole, and it was because he too was afraid. But those pots and pans! Hungry and tired as Edward was, the pots seemed to him the best part of it all. There were potatoes in the one which stood down, quite ready; but two pots still hung over the fire; could it be fish in one of them? But in the other? The mother hesitated, not knowing what to do; for they remained standing there, the angry looking man and the boy. At last just as she was going to ask them to sit down, or something similar, the father began. He presumed that she knew now what had happened, hey? The boy had come to beg pardon and to receive his punishment; it was quite necessary, for he was a bad boy and nothing but punishing did him any good; kindness was utterly wasted on him. "Oh, must it be?" said the mother, mildly. She was quite frightened, and Ole turned a bluish-white, like the shirt he had on. "Yes, he must have a beating! Beg pardon first. Sharp's the word?" Ole began to cry, not so Edward. Ole could not sit still; he got up, he looked at his mother: "Mother, dear!" said he. He could not get out another word; but his meaning was evident, his mother was to make peace between them. "Beg pardon!" shouted the father, and the whip became restless. "But, mother dear!" shrieked Ole.