lf all day about her cargo, and in settling accounts
with Tulloch. It was very late when he went to see Snorro. But Snorro
was waiting for him. Now that things had come to a crisis he was ready
to hear all Jan's complaints; he believed him in all things to have
done right.

"Thou hast asked her once, Jan," he said; "that was well and right.
Thou shalt not go again. No, indeed! Let her come and tell thee she
is sorry. Then thou can show her a man's heart, and forgive her
freely, without yea or nay in the matter. What right had she to pull
thy house to pieces without thy knowledge? Come, now, and I will show
thee the place I have made for thee when thou art in Lerwick."

There was a big loft over Peter's store, with a narrow ladder-like
stair to it. It was full of the lumber of thirty years and tenanted by
a colony of Norway rats, who were on the most familiar terms with
Snorro. Many of them answered to their names, none were afraid to eat
from his hand; one old shrewd fellow, gray with age, often crept into
Snorro's bosom, and in the warmth, lay hour after hour, watching with
wise, weird eyes the quiet face it trusted as it bent over a book.

There was a corner in this garret with a window looking seaward, and
here Snorro had cleared a small space, and boarded it up like a room.
A bed of down and feathers, with a cover of seal-skins occupied one
side; two rude seats, a big goods-box turned up for a table, and some
shelves full of the books Jan had brought him, completed its
furniture.

"See here, Jan, I have been fifteen years with Peter Fae, and no feet
but mine have ever entered this loft. Here thou canst be at peace. My
dear Jan, lie thee down, and sleep now."

Jan was glad to do it. He put the gold locket on Snorro's table, and
said, "Thou keep it. I bought it for her, and she sent it back to
me."

"Some day she will be glad of it. Be thou sure of that."

During the summer Jan made short and quick voyages, and so he spent
many an hour in this little retreat talking with Snorro, for he had
much to annoy and trouble him. We do not get over living sorrows as
easily as dead ones. Margaret in her grave would have lost the power
to wound him, and he would gradually have ceased to lament her. But
Margaret weeping in her father's house; Margaret praying in the kirk
for strength to bear his neglect and injustice; Margaret throwing
open the Bluebeard chamber of their home, and discussing its tragedy
with his enemies;