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Monday morning had come, with work for the workers and pleasure for the pleasure-seekers. The curate at Kulleby was one of the workers, and yet Monday, instead of Sunday, was really his day of rest. His last sermon having been delivered, fairly given over to his hearers to be digested, the new one was not to be begun before Tuesday.
This was, it must be confessed, an inexcusably obstreperous scholar; but Tora would not have exchanged her husband, her Gunner, the fast friend of her promising "brother Karl," for the meekest or the wisest man in the world. The church at Kulleby was no dear, old-fashioned Swedish church, with its low white stone walls and its high black roof.
It's likely you don't live hereabouts." The cut of the stranger's clothes was not in vogue at Kulleby. "Don't you know me?" said the young woman, in a low voice. "No, miss!" was the answer, with another courtesy. "Don't you know me, mother?" was the question that followed, while the fair face flushed with the effort those words had cost the speaker. "It can't be my Karin!" was the exclamation.
The bell had no quaintly-formed tower of its own outside and quite separate from the sacred edifice, like an ecclesiastical functionary whose own soul has never entered into the Holy of holies. No; the parish of Kulleby had its pride in a great new wooden sanctuary, with nothing about its exterior, from foundation to belfry, that might not be seen in any Protestant land whatever.
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