“Let me go for thee.”
“Nay, then he will think that I am a coward. I must tell my own tale; he can but be angry.”
But Tulloch took his loss with composure. “Thou did the best that could be done, Jan,” he answered, when Jan had told the story of the shipwreck; “wind and wave are not at thy order.”
“Thou wilt say that for me? It is all I ask. I did my best, Tulloch.”
“I will say it; and in the spring I will see about another boat. I am not afraid to trust thee.”
Jan looked at him gratefully, but the hope was too far off to give much present comfort to him. He walked slowly back to the retreat Snorro had made for him, wondering how he was to get the winter over, wondering if Margaret would see him, wondering how best to gain her forgiveness, longing to see her face but not daring to approach her without some preparation for the meeting. For though she had come back to life, it had been very slowly. Snorro said that she never left the house, that she was still wan and weak, and that on the 96 rare occasions when he had been sent to Peter’s house, she had not spoken to him.
After his interview with Tulloch, he fell into a sound sleep again. When he awoke the day was well begun, and Peter was at the store. Looking through the cracks in the rude flooring, he could see him carefully counting his cash, and comparing his balance. Snorro, for a wonder, was quite idle, and Peter finally looked at him, and said fretfully:
“There is this and that to do. What art thou standing still for?”
“A man may stand still sometimes. I feel not like work to-day.”
“Art thou sick, then?”