It was this year that my father was involved in his unequal struggle
with the authorities--among whom were the sheriff and the minister--as
to whether our trading-place should be a permanent stopping-place for
the Nordland steamer. This was a matter of vital importance to my
father, and the dispute about it, which also interested the whole
district, had already begun to be rather warm.

This was, in fact, not the least important object that the sheriff had
in view when he came that summer on a visit to the minister, who was a
very influential man.

Outwardly there was as yet no rupture between my father and the
minister, and it must have been for the purpose of manifesting this
publicly that during the sheriff's visit my father was invited over to
the minister's two or three times.

It was thus that my father and I were one day asked to go on a
sailing-trip out to the Vætte Rocks, which lay half a mile away. We were
first to fish, and then to eat milk-rings [The thick sour cream off the
pans in which milk has been set up.] on land at Gunnar's Place, a house
rented from the parsonage.

There was always a certain solemnity about the occasion when the
minister's white house-boat with four men at the oars glided out of the
bay, and a considerable number of spectators generally stood on shore to
watch it. That day, father, too, stood out on the steps, with a
telescope. He had excused himself from going, but with good tact had let
me go.

In the cabin, which was open on account of the heat, sat the minister's