“Is any one ill?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Out at the brickfields,” said the pastor.
Enveloped in his grey ulster, with a red scarf round his waist, he seated himself in the sledge, and the little bay fjord horse set off in its usual trot.
It was a sad sight that met him out at the red factory buildings, where there was no smoke ascending from the chimneys, and the shop stood with locked doors and shuttered windows. “Poor man!” thought the pastor. “If he is guilty, all this trouble is too great for him to bear; and if he is innocent, this will be the worst evidence against him. He must be encouraged.”
Wangen still lived in his pretty house, and after taking off his coat in the cheerful hall, the pastor went into the drawing-room. A servant was occupied in dusting, and she went at once to tell Wangen.
Tick! tick! went a little clock in its polished case on the wall. There was a sound of children crying in the adjoining room, and Wangen’s voice hushing them.
The door opened and Wangen entered. He had grown very thin, his eyes wore an expression of suffering, and he was almost unrecognisable.