Pastor Tuft was walking up and down his study, composing his Sunday sermon.  He was a handsome man, with a long, fair face, and dreamy eyes; his wife, Josephine, in the days when she thought she was in love with him, used to call him Melanchthon—­that was not many years ago, and he still resembled in appearance the poet of the Reformation.  But his features had now lost their fine serenity, and he was glad when his bitter and troubled thoughts on the doctrine of justification—­a subject he had chosen for its bearing on his brother-in-law’s conduct—­were interrupted by his wife.  Josephine burst into his study in a state of fierce excitement.

“They will be here in a moment,” she said.  “The steamer has arrived.  Oh, that woman, that woman!  She has ruined my brother’s life!”

“If he wanted to settle again in Norway with her,” said the pastor, “couldn’t he have chosen some spot where the story of their misconduct was not known?  But to come to the very town!  Everybody will remember!”

“Yes,” said Josephine; “it is only six years since Edward ran off to America with Soeren Kule’s wife.  Surely, he will not expect you, a minister, to receive the woman, especially as Kule is still living.”

While she was talking, Tuft stared out of the window.  A tall man in light clothes was coming to the house—­a tall man, with a clear-cut, sunburnt face, and a lean, curved nose that gave him the air of a bird of prey.  By his side was a lady with sweet, delicate features, dressed in a tartan travelling costume.  There was a knock at the door.  Josephine went down very slowly, and opened it.  “Edward!”

There was a glow in her eyes as she welcomed her brother, and his eyes also lighted up.  He was about to cross the threshold, when he noticed that she completely disregarded his companion.  In the meantime, Tuft had come to the door; he, too, made no advances.  There was always something of the keen, wild look of an eagle about Edward Kallem; it became still more striking as he glared at his sister and brother-in-law.

“Are you waiting,” he said, “for me to introduce my wife?  Well, here she is—­Ragni Kallem.”

So the pair had married in America!  If Tuft and Josephine had not been so eager to impute every sort of misconduct to runaways, they would have foreseen this natural event.  Tuft tried to find something to say, but failed, and glanced at Josephine.  But she did not look as if she were willing to help him.

For the fact that Edward and Ragni were now married increased rather than diminished Josephine’s bitterness.  Although she would not admit it to herself, her religious objections were a mere pretence.  She was jealous, jealous with the strange jealousy of a sister who wanted to be all in all to her brilliant brother, and hated that another woman should be more to him than she was.  All her life had been centred on him.  She had married Ole Tuft, a poor peasant’s son, because he was the bosom friend of Edward.  Her marriage, she thought, would connect them still more closely.  She wanted to live by his side, watching him rise into fame as the greatest doctor in Norway.  For young Kallem’s masters had predicted that he would prove to be a man of genius.