he divine. And we--we
are certainly better than Jehovah. The dogma of the atonement, based
on original sin and the bloodthirstiness of God, is revolting to us; we
shrug our shoulders, and turn away with a smile, or in disgust. We are
not angels yet, but we are too good to worship such a God as that.

There is some excuse for the priest, of course. He must preach of some
God. And he has no other.

Altogether, it's hardly surprising that even ignorant peasants shake
their heads and give the church a wide berth. What do they do on
Sundays, then? My dear fellow, they have no Sunday. They sit nodding
their heads over a long table, waiting for the day to pass. They remind
one of plough horses, that have filled their bellies, and stand snoring
softly, because there's no work today.

The great evolutionary scheme, with its wonders of steel and miracles of
science, goes marching on victoriously, I grant you, changing the face
of the world, hurrying its pulse to a more and more feverish beat. But
what good will it do the peasant to be able to fly through the air on
his wheelbarrow, while no temple, no holy day, is left him any more on
earth? What errand can he have up among the clouds, while yet no heaven
arches above his soul?

This is the burning question with all of us, with you in the desert as
with us up here under the Pole. To me it seems that we need One who will
make our religion new--not merely a new prophet, but a new God.

You ask about my health--well, I fancy it's too early yet to speak about
it. But so much I will say: If you should ever be in pain and suffering,
take it out on yourself--not on others.

Greetings from us all.

Yours,

PEER DALESMAN.

Chapter IV

Christmas was near, the days were all grey twilight, and there was a
frost that set the wall-timbers cracking. The children went about
blue with cold. When Merle scrubbed the floors, they turned into small
skating-rinks, though there might be a big fire in the stove. Peer waded
and waded through deep snow to the well for water, and his beard hung
like a wreath of icicles about his face.

Aye, this was a winter.

Old Raastad's two daughters were in the dairy making whey-cheese. The
door was flung open, there was a rush of frosty air, and Peer stood
there blinking his eyes.

"Huh! what smokers you two are!"

"Are we now?" And the red-haired one and the fair-haired one both
giggled, and they looked at each other and nodded. This queer