heard a voice speaking close to her, and she thought she could recognise the voice of her own child:—
"'Every time you hit that Tjostul, the people in the hill hit me.'
"The third Thursday evening she gave the changeling a thrashing again, and suddenly a woman, carrying a youngster, came rushing up to her, as if she had burnt herself.
"'Give me Tjöstul back again,—there's your own brat!' she said, as she threw the child at the woman, who stretched out her hands to receive it; she got hold of one leg, which she held in her hand, but the rest of the child she never saw,—so violent had the troll's wife thrown it from her."
During this story the mistress of the house began to show unmistakable signs of uneasiness, and towards its end they became so apparent, that even the story-teller, who seemed to be fully taken up by her narrative, also noticed them.
"What's the matter?" said the witch. "Oh, I see!—it's your husband that's coming," she continued, as she looked out through the open door, and added in a grave tone: "There's no room here for Gubjör any longer; but don't you be afraid, mother;—I'll go round by the churchyard, and then he won't see me."
