At last the priest had mounted the last hill, on which stood the little cottage. Dwelling-house and cow-shed together formed one building; it would be difficult to know the one from the other, were it not for the porch at one end, and two small windows at each side. The steps were washed and the stones strewn with fir twigs, because the priest was expected.
He had to stoop to enter. The ceiling was low, too, so that he had to keep his head bent. A saucepan of water was steaming on the fire, the floor was white and strewn with fir twigs, the wife was sitting dressed in her best with a hymn-book in her hand, and in bed, beneath an old skin coverlet, lay Lars Kleven, in a shirt so white that it must have been put on at the moment the priest was seen at the bottom of the hill. The priest first shook hands with the wife, and then went to the bed.
“And how are you, my dear Lars?”
Lars said nothing, pressed his lips together, and looked at the priest. It was his wife who answered.
“Oh, mercy! How frightened I was that he’d be gone before the priest came!”
The priest took the old man’s hand. It was as hard as horn, and quite cold. The furrowed, weather-beaten face was motionless, and the old eyes looked up dully. Now and then his mouth moved, for he still had his quid to chew. The pastor sat down.
“Are you afraid to die, my dear Lars?”
It was again the wife that answered.
“He has something to confess to you,” she said.