Claude felt happy to be called Claude. Remember, he was very weak and ill, and in this condition even men grow childish.
“Tell me something about yourself. You were not always in this island. You even talk sweetly beautiful English.”
“I am Norwegian. My father was a sailor, the captain of a barque. He always took mother and me everywhere. We were all he had. Thus I learned English. We often traded to Reykjavik. My two aunts used to live there.”
“Yes, Meta; and your parents?”
“Alas! we were wrecked on this wild coast; both were drowned. My dear mother lies buried in the little graveyard yonder. My poor father was—never—found.”
Her face was hurriedly buried in her hands, and tears welled through her fingers.
Tears filled Claude’s eyes too, but he spoke not. He knew well how sacred grief and tears like hers are.
But soon she lifted her tearful face.
“They are both in heaven, Claude,” she said.