“But then one day there comes to your door—out at the villa—a poor Evangelist, an unlearned man. And lo—a strange thing, dear friends—he has the word—the word of the Spirit!”
Having thus laid down a flattering position for himself, young Karlsen went on to praise his new convert as one docile and of a good heart. She had come this evening of all evenings—a first Wednesday—on purpose that she might pay her tithe. No, there was no drawing back. And in truth it would be a fool’s game to try it on. The Lord, He could see straight through a drawer in a table or the cover of a bank-book, never fear of that. And what was His, that He was going to have. Yes, that was His way. And woe unto him that falleth into the hands of the living God!
Far down by the door, old Karlsen was modestly seated on the extreme end of a bench. In his lap was a japanned tin box. There was a slight rattle during the next hymn, as he took out his keys and opened the casket.
The bench was so placed that the disciples could only pass by in single file. The old women from the almshouses, who had been sitting farthest back, were now the first to pass. As a matter of fact, they were exempt from the tithe contribution, having no income beyond their food and lodging. But most of them, nevertheless, managed to deposit a copper two or five øre piece with the Angel as they went out, though he never so much as looked up.
Why should he look? The money was not for himself, but for God. He was only sitting there holding the black tin box.
There was a clicking of purse-clips, and a soft ring of coin. Lystrup, the cobbler, dropped his money, and crawled miserably over the floor beneath the benches, looking for that which was lost.
Those who had paid stopped behind to see the others share their fate.
Fru Westergaard, Egholm, and the Evangelist came down together.
“But—but how do you manage when it doesn’t work out exactly?” said the lady, nervously trying to do sums in her head.
“It always works out exactly,” said Karlsen, with superior calm.