rkegrim complained to him. For he was humble-minded.

But the Kyrkegrim knew that this was not the case, for there was no
better preacher in all the district.

And yet when he overheard the farmer's sharp-tongued little wife speak
of this and that in the discourse, he began to think it might be so. No
doubt the preacher spoke somewhat fast or slow, a little too loud or too
soft. And he was not "stirring" enough, said the farmer's wife; a
failing which no one had ever laid at her door.

"His soul is in my charge," sighed the good priest, "and I cannot even
make him hear what I have got to say. A heavy reckoning will be demanded
of me!"

"The sermons are in fault, beyond a doubt," the Kyrkegrim said. "The
farmer's wife is quite right. She's a sensible woman, and can use a mop
as well as myself."

"Hoot, hoot!" cried the church owl, pushing his head out of the
ivy-bush. "And shall she be Kyrkegrim when thou art turned preacher, and
the preacher sits on the judgment seat? Not so, little Miss! Dust thou
the pulpit, and leave the parson to preach, and let the Maker of souls
reckon with them."

"If the preacher cannot keep the people awake, it is time that another
took his place," said the Kyrkegrim.

"He is not bound to find ears as well as arguments," retorted the owl,
and he drew back into his ivy-bush.

But the Kyrkegrim settled his red cap firmly on his head, and betook
himself to the priest, whose meekness (as is apt to be the case)
encouraged the opposite qualities in those with whom he had to do.

"The farmer must be roused somehow," said he. "It is a disgrace to us
all, and what, in all the hundreds of years I have been Kyrkegrim, never
befell me before. It will be well if next Sunday you preach a stirring
sermon on some very important subject."

So the preacher preached on Sin--fair of flower, and bitter of
fruit!--and as he preached his own cheeks grew pale for other men's
perils, and the Kyrkegrim trembled as he sat listening in the porch,
though he had no soul to lose.

"Was that stirring enough?" he asked, twitching the sleeve of the
farmer's wife as she flounced out after service.

"Splendid!" said she, "and must have hit some folk pretty hard too."

"It kept your husband awake this time, I should think," said the
Kyrkegrim.

"Heighty teighty!" cried the farmer's wife. "I'd have you to know my
good man is as decent a body as any in the parish, if he does take a nap
on Sundays! He is no sinner i