When the priest came back that evening he had been weeping. Evil and wrong-doing seemed to flourish all about him. He was wounded and humbled with sorrow; now his wife could not even have the shoes she needed so badly. Enok’s rich offering would have to be returned to the giver, as being stolen goods. And that would leave the priest blank and bare.

He went up to his wife at once. But even before he had passed the door of her room, new trouble and despair came to meet him. His wife was sewing. Garments were strewn about the floor, a fork and a dishcloth from the kitchen lay on the bed, together with newspapers and some crochet-work. One of her slippers was on the table. On her chest of drawers lay a branch of birch in leaf and a big grey pebblestone.

He set about, from force of habit, putting things in order.

“You’ve no need to trouble,” said she. “I was going to put that slipper away myself as soon as I’d done my sewing.”

“But how can you sit and work with the place in such a mess?”

At this she was offended, and made no answer.

“What do you want that stone for?” he asked.

“It’s not for anything particular. I just found it on the beach, and it was so pretty.”

He swept up a little heap of faded grass that lay beside the mirror, and put it in a newspaper.

“I don’t know if you want this for anything?” he asked, checking himself.

“No, it’s no good now. It’s sorrel; I was going to use it for a salad.”

“It’s been lying here over a week,” he said. “And it’s made a stain here on the polish.”

“There, that shows you. Polished furniture’s such a nuisance; I can’t see any sense in it myself.”

At that he burst out into an angry laugh. His wife dropped her work and stood up.

He could never leave her in peace, but was always worrying the life out of her with his lack of sense. And so they drifted once more into one of the foolish, fruitless quarrels that had been repeated at intervals through the past four years. The priest had come up in all humility to beg his wife’s indulgence because he could not get her the new shoes at once, but he found it now more and more impossible to carry out his purpose; bitterness overpowered him. Things were all wrong every way at the Vicarage since Jomfru van Loos had left them and his wife had taken over the housekeeping herself.

“And while I think of it, I wish you would use a little sense and thought over things in the kitchen,” he said.

“Sense and thought? And don’t I, then? Do you mean to say things are worse now than before?”

“I found the dust-bin full of good food yesterday.”

“If only you wouldn’t go interfering with everything....”

“I found a dish of cream from the dinner the other day.”

“Well, the maids had been at it, and I didn’t care to use it after them.”

“I found a lot of rice as well.”

“It was the milk had turned, and spoiled it. I couldn’t help that, could I?”

“One day I found a boiled egg, with the shell off, in the dust-bin.”

His wife was silent. Though, indeed, she could have found something to say to that as well.

“We’re not exactly rich enough to waste things,” said the priest. “And you know yourself we have to pay for the eggs. One day the cat was eating an omelette.”

“Only a bit that was left from dinner. But you’re all unreasonable, and that’s the truth; you ought to see a doctor for that temper of yours.”

“I’ve seen you stand holding the cat and pushing a bowl of milk under its nose. And you let the maids see it too. They laugh at you behind your back.”

“They don’t. It’s only you that are always nasty and ill-tempered.”

The end of it was that the priest went back to his study, and his wife was left in peace.

At breakfast next morning no one could see from her looks that she had been suffering and wretched. All her trouble seemed charmed away, and not a memory of their quarrel left. Her easy, changeable nature stood her in good stead, and helped to make her life endurable. The priest was touched once more. After all, he might as well have held his peace about these household matters; the new housekeeper would be coming soon, and should be on her way already.

“I’m sorry you’ll hardly be able to get those shoes just yet,” he said.

“No, no,” was all she said.

“Enok’s offering will have to be returned; the money was stolen.”

“What’s that you say?”

“Yes, only fancy—it was he who stole all that money from Mack. He confessed before the Lensmand yesterday.” And the priest told her the whole story.

“Then it wasn’t Rolandsen after all...” said Fruen.

“Oh, Rolandsen—he’s always in mischief some way or other. An incorrigible fellow. But, anyhow, I’m afraid your shoes will have to wait again.”

“Oh, but it doesn’t matter about the shoes.”

That was her way, always kind and unselfish to the last—a mere child. And her husband had never heard her complain about their poverty.

“If only you could wear mine,” he said, softening.

But at that she laughed heartily. “Yes, and you wear mine instead, ha-ha-ha!” And here she dropped his plate on the floor and smashed it; dropped the cold cutlet as well. “Wait a minute; I’ll fetch another plate,” she said, and hurried out.

Never a word about the damage, thought the priest; never so much as entered her head. And plates cost money.

“But you’re surely not going to eat that cutlet?” said his wife when she came in.

“Why, what else should we do with it?”

“Give it to the cat, of course.”

“I’m afraid I can’t afford that sort of thing, if you can,” said he, turning gloomy again. And this might have led to a first-rate quarrel again, if she had not been wise enough to pass it over in silence. As it was, both felt suddenly out of spirits....

Next day another remarkable happening was noised abroad: Rolandsen had disappeared. On hearing the news of the find in the wood, and Enok’s confession, he had exclaimed, “The devil! It’s come too early—by a month, at least.” BØrre the organ-blower had heard it. Then, later in the evening, Rolandsen was nowhere to be found, within doors or without. But BØrre’s little boat, that was drawn up at the Vicarage landing-place, had disappeared, together with oars and fishing-gear and all that was in it.

Word was sent to Rosengaard at once about the discovery of the true thief, but, strangely enough, Mack seemed in no hurry to come back and take the matter up anew. Doubtless he had his reasons. Rolandsen had cheated him into paying out a reward, and he would now have to pay the same sum over again, which was by no means convenient at the moment. A true Mack, he would never think of acting less open-handedly now than before,—it was a point of honour with him,—but just at the moment he was pressed for money. Mack’s numerous and various undertakings called for considerable disbursements, and there had been no great influx of ready cash for some time past. There was his big consignment of herring still in the hands of the agents at Bergen; prices were low, and Mack was holding. He waited impatiently for the dog-days; after that, the fishing would be definitely at an end, and prices would go up. Also, the Russians were at war, and agriculture in that widespread land would be neglected; the population would need fish to help them out.

Weeks passed, and Mack failed to appear at the factory at all. There was that bakery, too, that he had promised the people at the Vicarage—and what was he to say when Fruen asked him? The foundations were laid, and the ground had been levelled, but no building was being done. Once more folk began to whisper about Mack; how, like as not, he would find it awkward to get on with that bakery place. So strong was this feeling of doubt, that the baker at the Lensmand’s took to drink again. He felt himself secure; a bakery could not be run up in a week; there was time at any rate for a good solid bout. The priest heard of his backsliding, and appealed to him in person, but with little effect; the man felt safe at least for the time being.

And in truth, the priest, who was ever a worker, had much on his hands just now; he spared no effort, but for all that he seemed always behindhand. And now he had lost one of his helpers, the most zealous of them all—Enok to wit. Only a couple of days after that disaster, Levion had come up once more, and showed himself extremely willing to be reinstated.

“Priest can see now, surely, there’s none could be better for the place than me.”

“H’m! You are suspected of having started that fire yourself.”

“’Tis an everlasting thief and scoundrel said that lie!” exclaimed Levion.

“Good! But anyhow, you’re not going to be helper again.”

“Who’s it to be this time, then?”

“No one. I shall manage without.”

That sort of man was the priest; strong and stiff and just in his dealings with all. And he had reason now to mortify himself without pity. The constant discomfort at home and the many difficulties of his office were striving to demoralise him and tempt him to his fall; reprehensible thoughts came into his head at times. Why, for instance, should he not make peace with Levion, who could be useful to him in many little matters by way of return? Furthermore, Mack of Rosengaard had offered his help in any deserving case of actual need. Well and good! He, the priest himself, was in greater need than any of his flock. Why not apply to Mack for help on behalf of a family in distress, and keep the help so given for himself? Then he could get that pair of shoes for his wife. He himself needed one or two little things as well—a few books, a little philosophy; he felt himself withering up in the round of daily toil; his development was checked. Rolandsen, that glib-tongued rogue, had declared it was human beings had made God what He was, and the priest had marked the effect of that upon his own wife. He needed books from which to arm himself for the abolishment of Rolandsen as soon as opportunity arose.

Mack came at last—came, as usual, in splendour and state; his daughter Elise was with him. He called at the Vicarage at once, as a matter of courtesy; moreover, he did not in any way desire to hide away from his promise. Fruen asked about the bakery. Mack regretted that he had been unable to get the work done sooner, but there were very good reasons. It was a flat impossibility to get the building done this year; the foundations must have time to settle first. Fruen gave a little cry of disappointment, but her husband was relieved.

“That’s what the experts tell me,” said Mack. “And what can I do? If we were to build and finish now, then next spring’s thaw might shift the whole foundation several inches. And what would happen to the building above?”

“Yes, of course,” agreed the priest.

But it must not be thought that Mack was in any way discouraged; far from it. The dog-days were past, the herring fishery was at an end, and the agent in Bergen had wired that prices were going up by leaps and bounds. Mack could not help telling them the news at the Vicarage. And in return the priest was able to inform him where Rolandsen was hiding, on an island among the outer reefs, far to the west, like a wild savage. A man and woman had come up to the Vicarage and brought the news.

Mack sent off a boat at once in search.