The curate, listening in silence, absently crumbled his bread on the cloth without eating anything. He had hardly eaten at all for the twenty-four hours he had been under the Provst's roof. He did not give the impression of being ill at ease. On the contrary there was an expression of joy and thankfulness in his gentle light blue eyes, when he now and then raised them and glanced round the room, dwelling a moment on the daughter of the house, as she stood behind the steaming urn.
Miss Ragnhild Tönnesen was, like her father, a stately figure and the image of him. She had the same large expressive eyes—only a shade lighter—the same southern type of nose and well-formed mouth. But she was slim almost to thinness, nor had she inherited the Provst's healthy dark complexion. Her skin was pale and delicate, almost transparent—as if it had never known either wind or sun. On the other hand her haughty bearing and formal carriage were again quite her father's, just as the relationship could be traced in the inordinate care of her person which was disclosed by her elegant costume in the latest fashion.
Miss Ragnhild was twenty-four years old and the Provst's only child. If at the first moment she appeared somewhat older, it was the result of having been the mistress of her father's house for some years. While quite a child the Provst had lost his wife, and it was owing to the overwhelming
