Meantime, Ørlygur had left the doctor and was riding on alone. He was deep in thought, and allowed his horse to pick its own way at its own pace. All respected his reserve, and he was left in peace.
The doctor had joined the party with Ormarr. The widow and her daughter rode immediately in front, and Ormarr noted how the doctor’s eyes dwelt on the girl. It appeared, from something the doctor let fall in conversation, that he was again in need of a housekeeper.
Ormarr was struck by a sudden idea, but shook his head a moment after.
“No,” he thought; “it would be too dangerous.”
The doctor was a widower, childless, and lived alone at the trading station, keeping only a girl to look after the house. And many stories were current as to the doctor and his housekeepers. Most of them left after a short time in the house, some of them going out of the country altogether, after which nothing was heard of them. It was also said that he drank in secret, and some believed him to be out of his mind. In any case, it was not a place for a respectable girl.
Ormarr was thinking hard as he rode along.
“She ought to stand the test,” he muttered to himself. “And who knows—perhaps it might be the very thing. A chance that might not come again....”
He found a pretext for entering into conversation with the doctor, and, slackening his pace by imperceptible degrees, managed to fall behind with him, in rear of the party.
It was not long before he had elicited from the doctor the confession that his latest housekeeper had indeed left him.
Ormarr laughed. “You’ve had quite a number of housekeepers these last few years.”