“What’s that you say?”
“Yes, only fancy—it was he who stole all that money from Mack. He confessed before the Lensmand yesterday.” And the priest told her the whole story.
“Then it wasn’t Rolandsen after all...” said Fruen.
“Oh, Rolandsen—he’s always in mischief some way or other. An incorrigible fellow. But, anyhow, I’m afraid your shoes will have to wait again.”
“Oh, but it doesn’t matter about the shoes.”
That was her way, always kind and unselfish to the last—a mere child. And her husband had never heard her complain about their poverty.
“If only you could wear mine,” he said, softening.
But at that she laughed heartily. “Yes, and you wear mine instead, ha-ha-ha!” And here she dropped his plate on the floor and smashed it; dropped the cold cutlet as well. “Wait a minute; I’ll fetch another plate,” she said, and hurried out.
Never a word about the damage, thought the priest; never so much as entered her head. And plates cost money.