Claude was silent also.
And Byarnie, away down in the valley yonder, went on milking his cow—or rather somebody else’s cow—and singing in Norse to himself. Presently Claude put out his hand and took that of Meta. It was very cold.
“Dear sister Meta,” he said.
She felt she wanted to cry more than ever now.
“I am going away to-morrow—south to my mother, dear; south to my own bonnie land. I am going away—”
Oh, how the tears rained now! There was no keeping them back. She threw herself on the grass and sobbed as if her heart would really burst.
Claude could say nothing for a moment or two.
“Meta! Meta!” he cried at last, “look up—speak to me. Listen, dear; I am going south to tell my mother I will never many any one except you, dear Meta. Do not speak; I know you love me as I love you. I will not be long away. You will long for my return, even as my dear mother is longing now. My mother will be your mother, Meta; my home and country will be yours.”
Meta was smiling now through her tears. What more was said, if anything, may never be known, but when Byarnie came floundering back with his pannikin of milk, he found his mistress and master, as he called them, both happy and gay, and wondered at this very much, because he had left them both sad and quiet.
A little Norse maiden knelt in prayer that night beside her dimity-curtained bed, and thanked the kind Father for the hope and joy of pure love, the hope that as she had a mother in heaven, she yet might have one on earth as well.