“You are really too kind, Mr. Martens; and your complaisance to such a child of the world as I am, always causes me great astonishment,” said Fanny, giving Madeleine a look.

“A great many people are astonished at it,” answered the chaplain, not understanding her meaning.

“No, really!  Who? who?” cried Fanny, curiously.

“Ah, you can scarcely understand,” Martens began to explain, “to what an extent we poor clergymen are observed by the hundred eyes of our congregation; and the fact is, there are several most respectable old ladies who have taken offence at my frequent visits to Sandsgaard and to yourself.”

“No!  How amusing!  Do listen, Madeleine!” cried Fanny, beaming.

“It’s all very well for you to laugh,” said the chaplain, good humouredly; “but it might be very embarrassing for me, were it not that I can rely on the support of the good dean.”

“So Dean Sparre and you get on now.  I was under the impression that the relation—­”

“Yes, at first; only just at first.  But I am not ashamed to confess that the fault was on my side.  You see, when I first came I took up with some of our so-called Evangelical neighbours; respectable, worthy people, too—­I should be sorry to say otherwise—­but still, not exactly such—­such—­”

“Comme il faut?” suggested Fanny.

“Well,” answered he, smiling, “that was not exactly the expression I was looking for; but still, you understand what I mean.”

“Perfectly!” said Fanny, laughing, as she took the cup of chocolate which Madeleine had poured out for her.

“I am sorry to say I took up a false position with regard to the dean, which led to many annoyances until I learnt to know him; then everything smoothed itself down so nicely that, if I may venture to say so, the relations between us became almost that of father and son.  He is an extraordinary man,” repeated the chaplain several times.

“Yes, is he not?” said Fanny.  “I think he is the nicest clergyman I have ever seen; and if one did not understand a word of his sermon, it would still be most edifying only to hear him read the service.  Then the charming poems he writes!”

“Yes.  For my part, I consider his last poem, ‘Peace and Reconciliation,’ the best thing of the kind that has appeared in our literature for the last ten years.  Can you imagine anything more charming than the lines—­

     “’I sat, in silent peace of even,
     On humble bench before my cot’?”

“Was he poor once?” asked Madeleine, quickly.

Fanny laughed; but the chaplain explained, in a clear and good-natured way, that the poem had been written after Sparre had become dean, and that the cottage was merely a poetical way of expressing his great simplicity.

Madeleine felt that she had asked a foolish question, and went to the window and looked out into the street.

“Yes,” continued the chaplain, “there is something about the dean I can never quite understand.  I never can quite make up my mind exactly where it lies; but when you are face to face with him, you feel his power and superiority.  I might almost say he seems to fascinate you.  When he is made a bishop—­”