That was a needlessly cruel taunt, and Peter was ashamed of it as soon as uttered. But all the same he turned away in anger, and two men coming in at the moment, he went with them to the other end of the store.
Snorro had held “little Jan” during the interview. The fresh air and the heat had overpowered the child, and he had fallen asleep. He lay in Snorro’s arms, a beautiful, innocent miniature of the man he loved so dearly. Watching the sleeping face, he had seemed unconscious of what passed between Peter and his daughter, but in reality he had heard every word. When Peter turned away he watched Margaret put on her baby’s cap and coat, and then as she rose with it folded in her arms, he said, “Let me see him again.”
“Kiss him, Snorro, for thou loved his father.”
He stooped and kissed the boy, and then glanced into Margaret’s face. Her tears, her pallor, her air of hopeless suffering went straight to his heart. After all she was Jan’s wife. He felt a great pity for her, and perhaps Margaret divined it, for she said timidly, “Snorro, can thou mend the windows in the old house—the house where I lived with Jan?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Wilt thou ask my father if thou may do it?”
“I will do it. Have thou patience, Margaret Vedder. It would be a sin if thou made the child suffer.”
“Dost thou think I would? Little does thou know of a mother’s heart.”