In the course of the morning a rider drew up at the house door. Maren flattened her nose at the little window of the guest-room, and scrutinized the arrival before admitting him. Then she nodded her head, and whispered to the priest to disappear. A moment later she opened the door, and ushered a stout red-faced ecclesiastic into the room. "Is the Reverend Pastor at home?" he asked, bowing to Maren Grubbe; "I have come to see him on important business." "He is at the present moment engaged with a sick parishioner. He will be here in a quarter of an hour. He left word before going out, that should your reverence arrive before his return--" "What! I was expected!" "The venerable the Archdeacon sent a deputation to see my master yesterday, and he thought it probable that a deputation from the very Reverend the Dean would arrive to-day." "Indeed! So Hartwig Juel has stolen a march on us." "Hartwig Juel had on a visit some little while ago made promises to my master of a couple of cows, a herd of sheep, some ale, wine, wheat, and so on, and he took advantage of the occasion to send all these things to us." "Indeed! Hartwig Juel's practice is sharp." "Thomas Lange will make up no doubt for dilatoriness." "Humph! and Olaf Petersen, has he sent?" "His deputation will, doubtless, come to-morrow, or even this afternoon." The Canon folded his hands over his ample paunch, and looked hard at Maren Grubbe. She was attired in her best. Her cheeks shone like quarendon apples, as red and glossy; full of health--with a threat of temper, just as a hot sky has in it indications of a tempest. Her eyes were dark as sloes, and looked as sharp. She was past middle age, but ripe and strong; for all that. The fat Canon sat looking at her, twirling his thumbs like a little windmill, over his paunch, without speaking. She also sat demurely with her hands flat on her knees, and looked him full and firm in the face. "I have been thinking," said the Canon, "how well a set of silver chains would look about that neck, and pendant over that ample bosom." "Gold would look better," said Maren, and shut her mouth again. "And a crimson silk kerchief--" "Would do," interrupted the housekeeper, "for one who has not expectations of a crimson silk skirt." "Quite so." A pause, and the windmills recommenced working. Presently squeals were heard in the back premises. One of the children had fallen and hurt itself. "Cats?" asked the Canon. "Cats," answered Maren. "Quite so," said the Canon. "I am fond of cats.' "So am I," said Maren.