I ask to see the blouse she is to wear with the
skirt, and it appears that this is not a real blouse at all, but a knitted
kerchief. But she has a left-off jacket that one of her sisters gave her,
and that will go outside and hide all the rest.
Olga is growing so fast, I am told, that there's no sense in buying a
blouse for her this twelvemonth to come.
Olga sits sewing on hooks and eyes, and that is soon done. Then she turns
so sleepy, it's a sight to see; wherefore I put on an air of authority and
order her to bed. Her mother feels constrained to sit up and keep me
company, though I tell her myself to go back to bed again.
"You ought to be properly thankful, I'm sure," says the mother, "to the
strange man for all the way he's helped you."
And Olga comes up to me and gives her hand to thank me, and I turn her
round and shuffle her across to the bedroom door.
"You'd better go too," I say to her mother. "I won't sit talking any more,
for I'm tired myself."
And, seeing I settle down by the stove with my sack under my head, she
shakes her head with a smile and goes off too.
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