at
in this storm."

"I can not go there, Snorro. I have been almost rude and indifferent
to him. Three times he has written to me concerning my duty; many
times he has talked to me about it. Now he will say, 'Thou hast reaped
the harvest thou sowed, Margaret Vedder.'"

"He will say no unkind word to thee. I tell thee thou must go. There
is none else that can help thee. Go for little Jan's sake. Wrap the
boy up warm. Come."

She was weeping and weary, but Snorro took her to the manse, carrying
little Jan under his own coat. Margaret shrank from an interview with
Dr. Balloch, but she had no need. He was not a man to bruise the
broken reed; no sooner did he cast his eyes upon the forlorn woman
than he understood something of the crisis that had brought her to him
for advice and protection.

He took them into his cheerful parlor, and sent their wet clothing to
the kitchen to be dried. Then he said: "Snorro, now thou go and help
Hamish to make us a good supper. It is ill facing trouble on an empty
stomach. And light a fire, Snorro, in the room up stairs; thou knowest
which room; for Margaret and her son will have to sleep there. And
after that, thou stop with Hamish, for it will be better so."

There were no reproofs now on the good doctor's lips. He never
reminded Margaret how often he had striven to win her confidence and
to lead her to the only source of comfort for the desolate and
broken-hearted. First of all, he made her eat, and dry and warm
herself; then he drew from her the story of her grief and wrongs.

"Thou must have thy own home, Margaret, that is evident," he said;
"and as for Suneva, I will see to her in the morning. Thou art
innocent of thy husband's death, I will make her to know that. Alas!
how many are there, who if they can not wound upon proof, will upon
likelihood! Now there is a room ready for thee, and thou must stay
here, until this matter is settled for thee."

It seemed a very haven of rest to Margaret. She went to it gratefully,
and very soon fell into that deep slumber which in youth follows
great emotions. When she awoke the fire had been re-built, and little
Jan's bread and milk stood beside it. It was a dark, dripping morning;
the rain smote the windows in sudden, gusts, and the wind wailed
drearily around the house. But in spite of the depressing outside
influences, her heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. She
felt as those feel "who have escaped;" and she dressed and