Possibly because he was reading, as he ate, of the land of Canaan, a land flowing with milk and honey.

The rain spattered unceasingly against the panes.

“What are you hanging about here for?” asked Hedvig. Sivert was standing huddled up by the sink.

“He’ll find out in a minute,” whispered the boy. “He’s waving his arms and legs about, and talking all about money.”

“Puh—let him. We must eat, so there’s an end of it. He’ll have forgotten by to-morrow how much there was.”

“But he’ll count it to-night. He’s going to the meeting.”

“To-night—h’m. That’s a nasty one,” said Hedvig thoughtfully.

Sivert showed a strange reluctance to hand over the stockings.

“They’ve been confirmed,” he explained. “I wore them last Sunday. You can’t have them back now after they’ve been to my confirmation. It’s a great honour.”

“You take them off, and that sharp! You can see mine are wet through.”

“Mine are ... they’re wet, too.”

“Wet, too? Why, what have you been doing?”

“I—I couldn’t help it,” snivelled Sivert shamefacedly. “It came of itself, when Father took the bowl....”

Hedvig drew away from him, turning up her nose in disgust.

“Ugh! You baby!”

“Mother! Is she to call me a baby now I’m grown up and confirmed?”

“Hold your noise, out there!” cried his father. “Run down to Eriksens’ and ask the time.”

Sivert hurried away, and brought back word: half-past seven.

“I must be off,” said Egholm, with an air of importance.

Mother and children looked with a shiver of dread towards the cut-glass bowl. But Egholm was quietly putting on his still dripping coat, looking at himself in the glass, as he always did. It was a game of blind man’s buff, where all save the blind man know how near the culprit stands.

“Leave out the key, Anna, if I’m not....”

“Oh, I’ll be waiting up all right.”

“Well, if you like.” Egholm moved to the door; he grasped the handle. A flicker of hope went through them; he had forgotten his tithe and offering. To-morrow it wouldn’t matter so much....

But Egholm stood there still, pulling at his beard, straining himself to think....

“Ah—I mustn’t forget the chiefest of all.”

In the midst of a ghastly silence he took the bowl from its place, shook out the little heap of coppers, and with a satisfied air stacked them up in orderly piles, ready to count. He counted all through, counted over again, and moved the piles in different order, pulled at his beard, and glowered. The mother kept her eyes fixed on her work, but the children were staring, staring at their father’s hands.

“How much was it he lent us on the clock last time? Three kroner, surely?”

“Yes; I think it was three,” said Fru Egholm, trying her hardest to speak naturally.

“What do you mean?—‘you think it was!’” Her husband rose to his feet with a threatening mien.

“Yes, yes, I remember now. It was three kroner.”

“And did you put the thirty-øre tithe in the bowl, as I ordered?”

Fru Egholm felt instinctively that it would be best to insist that the money had been put in the bowl. But another and stronger instinct led her at this most unfortunate moment to hold forth in protest against the giving of tithes at all, and more especially tithe of moneys received on pawned effects. And very soon she had floundered into a slough of argument that led no way at all.

Egholm strode fuming up and down the room.

“You didn’t put it in at all.”

“I did. To the last øre.”

Now this was perfectly true. The money had been put in....

“Then you must have stolen it again after.”

“God wouldn’t have it, I know. It’s blood money.”

“Wouldn’t He? He shall—I’ll see that He does! You’ve stolen money from the Lord! What have you done with it?”

“What do you think we should do with it?”

“Who’s been out buying things?” he thundered, turning to the children.

“It wasn’t me—not quite,” said Sivert, with one thumb deep in his mouth.

“That means it was you, you little whelp. What did you buy with the money?”

“I didn’t buy two eggs.” Sivert was steadfastly pleading not guilty.

Egholm called to mind that he had had an egg with his dinner. The depth of villainy was clear and plain.

Fru Egholm could hold out no longer. “I—I thought you needed something strengthening, Egholm; you’ve been looking so poorly. And I took out the thirty øre again and bought two eggs. One you had, and one I gave the children. They need it, too, poor dears.”

Egholm felt his brain seething; he gripped his head with both hands, as if fearing it might burst. Every nerve seemed to shudder as at the touch of glowing iron.

“Ye are cursed with a curse,” he said in a hollow voice.

“Egholm, do be calm....” But his wife’s well-meaning effort only made him the more furious. He picked up his stick and struck the table with a crash.

“You should be struck down and smitten to earth—you have brought a curse upon my house!”

“Egholm, do be careful. It’s not for my own sake I say it, but remember the state I’m in....”

“What have I to do with the state you’re in?” he thundered inconsequently, but laid down his stick. “Out with the money this minute! Do you hear? The money, the money you took!”

“But you know yourself we used all we had for the rent, or I wouldn’t have touched the other. I can’t dig up money out of the ground.”

“Then give me the silver spoon.”

This was a little child’s spoon, worn thin, and bearing the date of Fru Egholm’s christening.

“Take it, then,” she said, weeping.

The children had been looking on with frightened eyes. Sivert, in his confusion, now began sawing again.

“What—you dare—at such a time! Stop that at once!” cried his father. And by way of securing immediate obedience, he twined his fingers in the boy’s hair and dragged him backwards out of his chair, till his wooden shoes rattled against the flap of the table.

Fru Egholm sprang towards them; the linen she was at work on tore with a scream.

“For Heaven’s sake!” she cried desperately, picking up the boy in her arms.

“Give me the spoon and let’s have no more nonsense,” said Egholm, and strode out. The three stood listening, as to the echoes of retreating thunder. First the slam of the door below, then the heavier clang of the gate across the yard.

“O—oh!” said Hedvig, “he ought to be thrashed!” And she drew a deep breath, as of cleaner air.

“Don’t speak like that, child. After all, he’s your father.”

II

Egholm descended the stairs, each step carrying him so much farther down from the heights of his rage. By the time he had crossed the stone paving, and let the street door clang behind him, he was as gentle as any hermit of the dale.

A gust of wind sent him staggering over to the outflow of a gutter pipe, which greeted him with an icy shower; he took it as one might take the jest of a friend. What matter, either, that the same wind thrust a chilly feeler in under his collar, right down to the armhole, or slapped him flat-handed on the mouth and left him breathless? He