gable of another farm, a man was brushing his Sunday clothes and whistling the while. The festive bustle of Sunday was to be seen on every side.
Villing was not to be taken in by this seeming carelessness. A strained and uneasy expression overspread his potatoe-like face with the little yellow whiskers; his outspread fingers drummed mournful tunes on his waistcoat, and he turned a troubled glance on the red roof of the Parsonage which shone majestically among the trees of the Park.
Oh, if he only knew what was to happen to-day! He would gladly give a hundred crowns to the poor for one peep into what he was pleased to call the "dim chaos of the future"—having a weakness for high sounding phrases. There was no longer any doubt that the Provst meant to use all his power to crush the spirit of revolt among the congregation—since he had nailed up an announcement on the smithy, that for the future he would preach in both churches himself, beginning with Skibberup today. But would he succeed? Had not the movement gone too far for opposition to have any effect? Notwithstanding that he was a firm adherent of the Provst, his spirits sank when,he thought of the coming contest.
He went back again into the shop and vented his ill-humour, as usual, on the shop-boy, a thin bleached-looking child from the Copenhagen
