“Stiorna would say that the demon will smack his lips over it. Come and taste.”
“Do not speak so, dear.”
“I was only quoting Stiorna—”
“What are you saying about me?” inquired Stiorna, appearing at the door. “Only talking about the cream and the cheese? Are you sure of that? Bless me! what a smell of the yellow flowers! It will be a prime cheese.”
“How can you leave the cattle, Stiorna?” cried Erica. “If they are all gone when you get back—”
“Well, come, then, and see the sight. I get scolded either way, always. You would have scolded me finely to-night if I had not called you to see the sight—”
“What sight?”
“Why there is such a procession of boats on the fiord, that you would suppose there were three weddings happening at once.”
“What can we do?” exclaimed Frolich, dolefully looking at the cream, which had reached such a point as that the stirring could not cease for a minute without risk of spoiling the cheese.
Erica took the long wooden spoon from Frolich’s hand, and bade her run and see where the bishop was going to land. The cream should not spoil while she was absent.