“I did not fetch it at all.”
“But—it was here last night, and this morning it was gone.”
Suddenly Ørlygur understood what had happened. And he flushed at the thought.
“That may be so,” he answered vaguely. He hardly knew what to say.
The widow looked at him, as if somewhat offended at his tone.
“Won’t you come in and sit down for a while?”
“Thanks,” said Ørlygur. And they went indoors.
He had never been inside the house before. The little room was furnished with two beds; he looked immediately at the one which was evidently Bagga’s. Her hat hung on a nail at the head of the bed, her knife and fork were in a little rack close by. On a shelf lay her Bible and Prayer Book, with some other volumes. He dared not take them up to see what they were—they looked like collections of the Sagas. The bed was neatly made, and a knitted coverlet of many colours spread over.
He sat down on the other bed with a strange sense of being an intruder here. His thoughts were vague, but he was dimly conscious that the place was filled with the spirit and life of the girl herself. Here she lived; the little trifles in the room were things she daily touched.
The widow, entering behind him, invited him to sit on the other bed. He did so, feeling dazed, and seating himself uncomfortably on the very edge. The widow suggested that he need not be afraid of lying down if he were tired, but he declined the offer with some abruptness.