“Is he called Jan?”
“Yes, he is called Jan after thee.”
“This is great good news, Snorro. What now of my wife?”
Snorro’s voice changed, and all the light left his face. He spoke slowly, but with decision. “She is a very good woman. There is not a better woman to be found anywhere than Margaret Vedder. The minister said I was to tell thee how kind she is to all who are sick 270 and in trouble, and to him she is as his right hand. Yes, I will tell thee truly, that he thinks she is worthy of thy love now.”
“And what dost thou think?”
“I do not think she is worthy.”
“Why dost thou not think so?”
“A woman may be an angel, and love thee not.”
“Then thou thinks she loves me not? Why? Has she other lovers? Tell me truly, Snorro.”
“The man lives not in Lerwick who would dare to speak a word of love to Margaret Vedder. She walks apart from all merry-making, and from all friends. As I have told thee she lives in her own house, and enters no other house but the manse, unless it be to see some one in pain or sorrow. She is a loving mother to thy son, but she loves not thee. I will tell thee why I think.” Then Snorro recounted with accurate truthfulness his last interview with Margaret. He told Jan every thing, for he had noted every thing:—her dress, her attitude, her rising color, her interest in the locket’s chain, her indifference as to his own hurried journey, its object, or its length.