“Can you lend me three hundred _Daler_?” he asked. “Three hundred _Daler_?” “For six months.” “I wouldn’t lend you the money anyway. It’s all over between us now.” Rolandsen nodded, and said, “Right, then, that’s agreed.” But when they reached the Vicarage gate, where Rolandsen had to turn off, she said, “I haven’t the money. I wish I had.” She gave him her hand, and said, “I can’t stand here any longer now; good-bye for the present.” And when she had gone a few steps, she turned round and said, “Isn’t there anything else you’d like me to say?” “No; what should there be?” said Rolandsen. “I’ve nothing that I know of.” She went. And Rolandsen felt a sense of relief, and hoped in his heart it might be for the last time. There was a bill stuck up on the fence, and he stopped to read it; it was Trader Mack’s latest announcement about the burglary: Four hundred _Speciedaler_ for information. The reward would be paid even to the thief himself if he came forward and confessed. Four hundred _Speciedaler_! thought Rolandsen to himself. [Illustration] V No, the new priest was not a rich man, far from it. It was only his poor little wife who was full of thoughtless, luxurious fancies she had been brought up with, and wanted a host of servants and such. There was nothing for her to do herself in the house; they had no children, and she had never learned housekeeping, and that was why she was for ever hatching childish ideas out of her little head. A sweet and lovely torment in the house she was. Heavens alive, how the good priest had fought his comical battles with his wife again and again, trying to teach her a scrap of sense and thought and order! For four years he had striven with her in vain. He picked up threads and bits of paper from the floor, put odds and ends of things in their proper places, closed the door after her, tended the stoves, and screwed the ventilators as was needed. When his wife went out, he would make a tour of the rooms and see the state she had left them in: hairpins here, there, and everywhere; combs full of combings; handkerchiefs lying about; chairs piled up with garments. And he shuddered and put things straight again. In his bachelor days, when he lived by himself in an attic, he had felt less homeless than he did now.