One Christmas, for instance, she had presented each of the old derelicts at the Seamen's Home with a pair of ski, declaring that with a little practice they would soon learn to use them, and that the exercise would give them a new lease of life. The poor old gouty invalids were hard put to it to hobble along on their feet with the aid of sticks, and had certainly never dreamed of running about on ski.
When Pastor Arff, who was extremely stout, complained of heartburn, she gave him a skiff, with oars complete, on the express condition that he should get up at six every morning and row a couple of miles up and down the river.
"I assure you, my dear Pastor, you'll feel as lively as a fish if you do!"
She would go to meetings in the afternoon, and sit among the earnest sisterhood, taking an interested part in discussions as to mission work among the heathen, and then go on in the evening to see the latest and riskiest pieces at the theatre, which she thoroughly enjoyed. It was a known fact that she had tried to enliven the work of the local soup-kitchen by introducing raisins as an ingredient in the pea-soup, but the old ladies on the committee had put their foot down—that was going too far. Malla Trap urged them to try it—it was delicious, she declared—but without avail.
The townsfolk were so used to her eccentricities that no one ever took much notice of them, for all knew she was a thoroughly good soul, who in her unobtrusive way had brought happiness to many a home in distress. It was not always by direct gifts that she effected this; her confident and encouraging manner gave new hope and strength to many who were sinking under the burden of their struggle. Her tall, erect figure came like a breath of the fresh north-west wind, sweeping clouds from the sky.
Not many knew that it was Malla Trap who had given Bertelsen the idea of starting a paper shop when the firm in which he was cashier failed, and he found himself thrown out, with a wife and children to look after, and no means of support.
The scene would probably have been something like this:
"Now, my dear man, it's no good giving up like that."
"But what am I to do?—there's nowhere to turn—only the workhouse. That's what it'll be—the workhouse."
"Nonsense, Bertelsen! pull yourself together, do. Look here! I've an idea. There's that shop in the square, next to Holm; it's vacant, and you could get it cheap. Start a little business there with paper, cardboard, wall-papers and that sort of thing. It'll be a success—it must!"