“Oh, you’re jealous and envious of all you see; you hate me for all the good things I’ve got,” says Inger again.  “You’ve lain awake with envy since I got Isak and all that’s here.  Heavens, woman, what have I ever done to you?  Is it my fault that your children never got on in the world, and turned out badly, every one of them?  You can’t bear the sight of mine, because they’re fine and strong, and better named than yours.  Is it my fault they’re prettier flesh and blood than yours ever were?”

If there was one thing could drive Oline to fury it was this.  She had been a mother many times, and all she had was her children, such as they were; she made much of them, and boasted of them, told of great things they had never really done, and hid their faults.

“What’s that you’re saying?” answered Oline.  “Oh that you don’t sink in your grave for shame!  My children!  They were a bright host of angels compared with yours.  You dare to speak of my children?  Seven blessed gifts of God they were from they were little, and all grown up now every one.  You dare to speak....”

“What about Lise, that was sent to prison?” asks Inger.

“For never a thing.  She was as innocent as a flower,” answers Oline.  “And she’s in Bergen now; lives in a town and wears a hat—­but what about you?”

“What about Nils—­what did they say of him?”

“Oh, I’ll not lower myself....  But there’s one of yours now lying buried out there in the woods—­what did you do to it, eh?”

“Now ...!  One-two-three—­out you go!” shrieks Inger again, and makes a rush at Oline.

But Oline does not move, does not even rise to her feet.  Her stolid indifference paralyses Inger, who draws back, muttering:  “Wait till I get that knife.”

“Don’t trouble,” says Oline.  “I’m going.  But as for you, turning your own kin out of doors one-two-three....  Nay, I’ll say no more.”

“Get out of this, that’s all you need to do!”

But Oline is not gone yet.  The two of them fall to again with words and abuse, a long bout of it again, and when the clock strikes half of the hour, Oline laughs scornfully, making Inger wilder than ever.  At last both calm down a little, and Oline makes ready to go.  “I’ve a long road before me,” says she, “and it’s late enough to be starting.  It wouldn’t ha’ been amiss to have had a bite with me on the way....”

Inger makes no answer.  She has come to her senses again now, and pours out water in a basin for Oline to wash.  “There—­if you want to tidy yourself,” she says.  Oline too thinks it as well to make herself as decent as may be, but cannot see where the blood is, and washes the wrong places.  Inger looks on for a while, and then points with her finger.

“There—­wash there too, over your eye.  No, not that, the other one; can’t you see where I’m pointing?”

“How can I see which one you’re pointing at,” answers Oline.