The child turned and looked at him. She was a little creature about twelve years old, with sharp, suspicious eyes, and lips pressed together. “Would to God the horse was smaller and the load larger; it might last longer,” answered the girl. “Is it then your own food you are dragging home?” “By God’s grace it is; I have to get my own food, although I am so little.” The beggar seized the sled rope to drag it up. The girl turned and looked at him. “You needn’t think that you will get anything for this,” she said. The beggar laughed. “You must be the daughter of the Broby clergyman.” “Yes, yes, I am indeed. Many have poorer fathers, but none have worse. That’s the Lord’s truth, although it’s a shame that his own child should have to say it.” “I hear he is mean and ill-natured, your father.” “Mean he is, and ill-natured he is, but they say his daughter will be worse if she lives so long; that’s what people say.” “I fancy people are right. What I would like to know is, where you found this meal-bag.” “It makes no difference if I tell you. I took the grain out of father’s store-house this morning, and now I have been to the mill.” “May he not see you when you come dragging it behind you?” “You have left school too early. Father is away on his parish visits, can’t you see?” “Somebody is driving up the hill behind us; I hear the creaking of the runners. Think if it were he who is coming!” The girl listened and peered down, then she burst into tears. “It is father,” she sobbed. “He will kill me! He will kill me!” “Yes, good advice is now precious, and prompt advice better than silver and gold,” said the beggar. “Look here,” said the child, “you can help me. Take the rope and drag the sledge; then father will believe it is yours.” “What shall I do with it afterwards?” asked the beggar, and put the rope round his shoulders. “Take it where you like for the moment, but come up to the parsonage with it when it is dark. I shall be looking out for you. You are to come with the bag and the sledge, you understand.” “I shall try.” “God help you if you don’t come!” called the girl, while she ran, hurrying to get home before her father. The beggar turned the sledge with a heavy heart and dragged it down to the inn. The poor fellow had had his dream, as he went in the snow with half-naked feet. He had thought of the great woods north of lake Löfven, of the great Finn forests. Here in the parish of Bro, where he was now wandering along the sound which connects the upper and lower Löfven,—in this rich and smiling country, where one estate joins another, factory lies near factory—here all the roads seemed to him too heavy, the rooms too small, the beds too hard. Here he longed for the peace of the great, eternal forests.