t understand--how should you? But, Mr. Monk, there are strange
things and strange people in this world, and I think that my daughter
Stella is one of the strangest of them. Fey like the rest--only a fey
Norse woman would sing in such a moment."

Again Morris looked at him.

"Oh, it is an old northern term, and means foreseeing, and foredoomed.
To my knowledge her grandmother, her mother, and her sister, all three
of them, sang or repeated that song when in some imminent danger to
their lives, and all three of them were dead within the year. The
coincidence is unpleasant."

"Surely," said Morris, with a smile, "you who are a clergyman, can
scarcely believe in such superstition?"

"No, I am not superstitious, and I don't believe in it; but the thing
recalls unhappy memories. They have been death-lovers, all of them. I
never heard of a case of one of that family who showed the slightest
fear at the approach of death; and some have greeted it with eagerness."

"Well," said Morris, "would not that mean only that their spiritual
sight is a little clearer than ours, and their faith a little stronger?
Theoretically, we should all of us wish to die."

"Quite so, yet we are human, and don't. But she is safe, thanks to
you, who but for you would now be gone. My head is still weak from
that blow--you must pay no attention to me. I think that I hear Stella
coming; you will say nothing to her--about that song, I mean--will you?
We never talk of it in my family."

When, still stiff and sore from his adventure in the open boat, Morris
went to bed, it was clear to his mind after careful consideration that
fortune had made him the host of an exceedingly strange couple. Of
Mr. Fregelius he was soon able to form an estimate distinct enough,
although, for aught he knew, it might be erroneous. The clergyman
struck him as a person of some abilities who had been doomed to much
disappointment and suffered from many sorrows. Doubtless his talents
had not proved to be of a nature to advance him in the world. Probably,
indeed--and here Morris's hazard was correct--he was a scholar and
a bookworm without individuality, to whom fate had assigned minor
positions in a profession, which, however sincere his faith, he was
scarcely fitted to adorn.

The work of a clergyman in a country parish if it is to succeed, should
be essentially practical, and this man was not practical. Clearly,
thought Morris, he was one of those who beat their wings aga