shock of his loss that he gave up his promising future as a school master and moved into a country parsonage in search of consolation and quiet for himself and his child.
They were just about to leave the table, when the lame old family servant put her head in from the kitchen, and announced that a person was at the door with a sledge, and insisted on seeing the Provst.
"At this time of day!" exclaimed the Provst, raising his eye-brows ominously, "What does he want, Loné?"
"How should I know?" she answered, sourly, "He said he had to fetch the Provst to a sick person."
"To a sick person! In this weather! And now, at night … who ever can it be, Loné?"
"How can I tell … he says he is Anders Jörgen's son from Skibberup."
"Oh, indeed!" murmured the Provst, with a gloomy look and nodding his head. "Is old Anders Jörgen to be called away now? Dear, dear? Where is the messenger?"
"I shewed him into the study."
The Provst finished his tea, wiped his mouth, and rose.
