Trader Mack came to call one day, and was shown into the parlour. It was a brief but important visit. Mack came to offer his assistance if any should be needed in helping the poor of the village. The priest thanked him, glad at heart. If he had not been sure of it before, at least he knew now, that Mack of Rosengaard was the protector of them all. An elegant, authoritative old gentleman; even Fruen herself, town-bred as she was, could not but feel impressed. A great man, beyond doubt--and those must be real stones in the pin he wore in his shirt-front. “The fishery’s doing well,” said Mack. “I’ve made another haul. Nothing to speak of, only some twenty barrels, but it all helps, you know. And then it occurred to me that we ought not to forget our duty towards our neighbours.” “Just so!” said the priest delightedly. “That’s as it should be. And twenty barrels, is that what you would call a little haul? I’ve no knowledge of these matters myself.” “Well, two or three thousand barrels would be better.” “Two or three thousand!” said Fruen. “Only fancy!” “But when I don’t make big enough hauls myself, I can always buy from others. There was a boat from the outlying parts made a good haul yesterday; I bought it up on the spot. I’m going to load every vessel I’ve got with herring.” “It’s a big business this of yours,” said the priest. Mack admitted that it was getting on that way. It was an old-established business when he came into it, he said, but he had worked it up, and extended its operations. For the sake of the children, he felt he must. “But, heavens, how many factories and stores and things have you altogether?” asked Fruen enthusiastically. Mack laughed, and said, “Really, _Frue_, I couldn’t say offhand, without counting.” But Mack forgot his troubles and annoyances for a little as he sat talking; he was by no means displeased at being asked about his numerous factories and stores. “You’ve a bakery at Rosengaard,” said Fruen, thinking all at once of her housekeeping. “I wish we lived nearer. We can’t make nice bread, somehow, at home here.” “There’s a baker at the _Lensmandsgaard_.” “Yes, but he’s never any bread.” “He drinks a great deal, I’m sorry to say,” put in the priest. “I’ve written him a letter, but for all that....” Mack was silent a moment. “I’ll set up a bakery here, then,” he said. “Seeing there’s a branch of the store already.” Mack was almighty; he could do whatever he willed. But a word from him, and lo, a bakery on the spot! “Only think of it!” cried Fruen, and looked at him with wondering eyes. “You shall have your bread all right, _Frue_. I’ll telegraph at once for the men to come down. It’ll take a little time, perhaps--a few weeks, no more.” But the priest said nothing. What if his housekeeper and all the maids baked the bread that was needed? Bread would be dearer now. “I have to thank you for kindly allowing me credit at the store,” said the priest.