re-assured himself. The meeting with the snow clearers had given him confidence, and he did not doubt, that at the decisive moment, the Lord would put the right words into his mouth.
Skibberup lay in a hollow surrounded by high hills which only open out on the east, towards the near lying fiord. The curate was at once struck by the number of small houses, and shabby little farms of which the village consisted. There was hardly a single large holding to be seen, but there were about fifty cottages clustered round a large pond, which reflected the starry sky in its dark waters amidst the snow. They were grouped picturesquely under the hills, some nestling on the slopes like a "sæter village," round a mountain tarn. Moreover, the village was half hidden by enormous masses of snow, which had been driven in from the fiord. Only the top ridge and smoke blackened chimney of many of the cottages were visible. A glimmer of light was still shining from a few windows, and an old man stood on one of the doorsteps, resting on a crutch, and waving his cap gaily as they swept by.
The sledge stopped outside a small farm which lay a little way off the road in the southern outskirts. The tarred gates were open, and a
