ng after her for a little, then
vaulted the turf wall and ran down the hillside towards the river,
making great skips and jumps over the tussocks and boulders, as if he
were as happy as a man could be. That was what Thorbeorn saw in the
autumn dusk.

He went home in a dreadful state of mind, and could hardly bear to be
served supper by his desecrated daughter. To think that those soft
cheeks had been profaned by a strange youth, that those grave young
eyes had looked kindly upon another than himself, that that fair hand
had clasped another's in kindness--all this seemed to him horrible. He
thought her a hypocrite; he thought himself insulted. Yet even he had
to admit that the kiss was sudden, and she evidently surprised and
(since she ran away at once) probably frightened. He judged that she
was a novice at such work, but for all that was very much afraid that
she took kindly to it.

He spent a great part of the night thinking it over, and before he went
to sleep had made up his mind. Early in the morning he was out and
about; before the day-meal he sent for Gudrid. She came, singing to
herself, fresh as a rose and as fair. She asked his pleasure--and he
had not the heart to tell her his displeasure. What he did say was
this: "Put your gear together as soon as you can. I am taking you to
Erne Pillar, where you will be put in fostership with Orme." Gudrid
looked up startled, and saw in her father's eyes what she had not seen
before. Her own eyes fell, she coloured up, turned and went away, to
do as she was told.

It may be said at once that she had done very little harm, and none
knowingly. The young man, who was one of the several who came to the
house, was the son of a neighbour, a man of repute. Gudrid favoured
him no more than any of the others, but it had so happened that he had
been there that afternoon, talking with the girls, and that Gudrid had
walked with him as far as the trees on his way home. He had protracted
the farewells, and had snatched a kiss; she had been frightened and run
away. That might have happened to anybody--but she knew now that
Arnkel had had no business at the house when her father was not there.
That could not be denied. She went soberly about her preparations, and
the girls were full of pity. They talked it over and over, but there
was nothing to be done. Her bundles and bales were corded upon the
sumpter's back. She embraced and kissed her housemates. There were