e trembled until the chair shook. He dared not look at the weeping
girl. She rose up. She gently moved away his hands. She kissed his
eyelids. She said, with an irresistible entreaty: "Look at me, Will. I
am speaking for mother. Let Ulfar alone. I do not say forgive him."

"Nay, I will never forgive him."

"But let him alone. Will! Will! let him alone, for mother's sake!"

Then he stood up. He looked into Aspatria's eyes; he let his gaze
wander to the crimson shawl. He began to sob like a child.

"You may go, Aspatria," he said, in broken words. "If you ask me
anything in mother's name, I have no power to say no."

He walked to the window and looked out into the dark stormy night, and
Brune motioned to Aspatria to go away. He knew Will would regain
himself better in her absence. She was glad to go. As soon as Will had
granted her request, she fell to the lowest ebb of life. She could
hardly drag herself up the long, dark stairs. She dropped asleep as
soon as she reached her room.

It was a bitter awakening. The soul feels sorrow keenest at the first
moments of consciousness. It has been away, perhaps, in happy scenes,
or it has been lulling itself in deep repose, and then suddenly it is
called to lift again the heavy burden of its daily life. Aspatria
stood in her cold, dim room; and even while shivering in her thin
night-dress, with bare feet treading the polished oak floor, she
hastily put out of her sight the miserable wedding-garments. A large
dower-chest stood conveniently near. She opened it wide, and flung
dress and wreath and slippers and cloak into it. The lid fell from her
hands with a great clang, and she said to herself, "I will never open
it again."

The storm still continued. She dressed in simple household fashion,
and went downstairs. Brune sat by the fire. He said: "I was waiting
for you, Aspatria. Will is in the barn. He had his coffee and bacon
long ago."

"Brune, will you be my friend through all this trouble?"

"I will stand by you through thick and thin, Aspatria. There is my
hand on it."

About great griefs we do not chatter; and there was no further
discussion of those events which had been barely turned away from
tragedy and death. Murder and despairing love and sorrow might have a
secret dwelling-place in Seat-Ambar, but it was in the background. The
front of life went on as smoothly as ever; the cows were milked, the
sheep tended, the men and maids had their tasks, the beds were ma