It would be impossible to describe the countenance of the priest when the saddler appeared in his study one evening, and taking a seat in front of him asked, after a few cordial, pleasant remarks by way of introduction, whether the priest would object to his marrying Magnhild. The priest was lying on the sofa smoking; his pipe dropped from his mouth, his hand sank with it, his fat face relaxed until it resembled a dough-like mass, in which the eyes peeped forth as wholly devoid of thought as two raisins; suddenly he gave a start that set a quantity of springs beneath him to creaking and grating, and the book that lay upside down on his knee fell. The saddler picked up the volume smiling, and turned over the leaves. The priest had risen to his feet.
"What does Magnhild have to say to this?" asked he.
The saddler looked up with a smile.
"Of course I should not have asked if she were not likely to give her consent," said he.
The priest put his pipe in his mouth, and strode up and down the floor, puffing away. Gradually he grew calmer, and without slackening his speed, he observed:—
"To be sure I do not know what is to become of the girl."
Once more the saddler raised his eyes from the book whose leaves he was turning over, and now laying it aside, he remarked:—
"It is, you know, rather a sort of adoption than a marriage. Down yonder at my house she can develop into whatever she pleases."
The priest looked at him, took a puff at his pipe, paced the floor, and puffed again.