l I want of her is a little love for my mother's sake; so I will
go and see her. For the sake of the dead she will at least be civil."

"Nothing will come of the visit. It is not to be expected that
Matilda will behave well to you, when she behaves ill to every
one else."

"For all that, I would like to look upon her. We are blood-kin. I
have a right to see her face; I have a right to offer her my service
and my duty; whether she will take it or throw it from her is to be
seen."

"She will _not_ take it. However, here is your dinner ready, and
after you have eaten it go and see your kinswoman. You will easily
find her; she lives in the largest house in Lerwick."

The little opposition to his desires confirmed David in his resolve.
When he had eaten, and dressed himself in his best clothing, he
went to Matilda Sabiston's house. It was a large stone dwelling,
and had been famous for the unusual splendor of its furnishing.
David was astonished and interested, but not in the least abashed;
for the absorbing idea in his mind was that of kindred, and the soft
carpets, the velvet-covered chairs and sofas, the pictures and
ornaments, were only the accessories of the condition. An old woman,
grim and of few words, opened the heavy door, and then tottered
slowly along a narrow flagged passage before him until they came
to a somberly furnished parlor, where Mistress Sabiston was sitting,
apparently asleep.

"Wake up, mistress," said the woman. "Here be some one that wants
to see you."

"A beggar, then, either for kirk or town. I have nothing to give."

"Not so; he is a fair, strong lad, who says you are his aunt."

"He lies, whoever he is. Let me see the fool, Anita."

"Here he is, mistress. Let him speak for himself." And Anita stood
aside and permitted David to enter the room.

Matilda sat in a large, uncushioned chair of black wood--the chair
of her fore-elder Olaf, who had made it in Iceland from some rare
drift, and brought it with his other household goods to Shetland ten
generations past. It was a great deal too large for her shrunken
form, and her old, old face against its blackness looked as if
it had been carved out of the yellow ivory of Sudan. Never had
David seen a countenance so void of expression; it was like a scroll
made unreadable by the wear and dust of years. Life appeared to
have retreated entirely to her eyes, which were fierce and darkly
glowing. And the weight and coldness of her great age comm