You
don't mind if I do a little scratching on your hoof with my knife, do
you?"
Nils Holgersson had just finished, when he heard the sound of voices. He
opened the stable door a little and peeped out.
His father and mother were coming down the lane. It was easy to see that
they were broken by many sorrows. His mother had many lines on her face
and his father's hair had turned gray. She was talking with him about
getting a loan from her brother-in-law.
"No, I don't want to borrow any more money," his father said, as they
were passing the stable. "There's nothing quite so hard as being in
debt. It would be better to sell the cabin."
"If it were not for the boy, I shouldn't mind selling it," his mother
demurred. "But what will become of him, if he returns some day, wretched
and poor--as he's likely to be--and we not here?"
"You're right about that," the father agreed. "But we shall have to ask
the folks who take the place to receive him kindly and to let him know
that he's welcome back to us. We sha'n't say a harsh word to him, no
matter what he may be, shall we mother?"
"No, indeed! If I only had him again, so that I could be certain he is
not starving and freezing on the highways, I'd ask nothing more!"
Then his father and mother went in, and the boy heard no more of their
conversation.
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