Vala had been in her grave a week–a week of days that turned the mother’s heart gray–before Nanna heard a word of comfort. Then once more David lifted the latch of the cot and entered her presence. She was sitting still and empty-handed, and her white face and the quivering of her lips pierced him to the heart.
“Nanna! Nanna!” he said.
Then she rose, and looked round the lonely room, and David understood what she meant.
“Nanna! Nanna!” was still all that he could say. He could find no words fit for such sorrow; but there was the truth to speak, and that might have some comfort in it. So he took her hands in his, and said gently:
“Nanna! dear Nanna! your husband is dead.”
“I am glad of it!” she answered. “He killed Vala twice over.” Her voice was low and weary, and she asked no question about the matter.
“Did you think I had forgotten you, Nanna?”
“Well, then, yes.”
“Forgotten you and Vala?”
“It looked most like it. I thought you were either feared for yourself or the law.”