lfred, through the sister of Matilda, the Norman duchess,) could his
avarice of power be gratified.

"Depart to thy home, my brother," said Earl Harold to Tostig, "and grieve
not that Algar is preferred to thee. For, even had his claim been less
urgent, ill would it have beseemed us to arrogate the lordships of all
England as our dues. Rule thy lordship with wisdom: gain the love of thy
lithsmen. High claims hast thou in our father's name, and moderation now
will but strengthen thee in the season to come. Trust on Harold
somewhat, on thyself more. Thou hast but to add temper and judgment to
valour and zeal, to be worthy mate of the first earl in England. Over my
father's corpse I embraced my father's foe. Between brother and brother
shall there not be love, as the best bequest of the dead?"

"It shall not be my fault, if there be not," answered Tostig, humbled
though chafed. And he summoned his men and returned to his domains.

CHAPTER VII.

Fair, broad, and calm set the sun over the western woodlands. Hilda
stood on the mound, and looked with undazzled eyes on the sinking orb.
Beside her, Edith reclined on the sward, and seemed with idle hand
tracing characters in the air. The girl had grown paler still, since
Harold last parted from her on the same spot, and the same listless and
despondent apathy stamped her smileless lips and her bended head.

"See, child of my heart," said Hilda, addressing Edith, while she still
gazed on the western luminary, "see, the sun goes down to the far deeps,
where Rana and Aegir [136] watch over the worlds of the sea; but with
morning he comes from the halls of the Asas--the golden gates of the
East--and joy comes in his train. And yet then thinkest, sad child,
whose years have scarce passed into woman, that the sun, once set, never
comes back to life. But even while we speak, thy morning draws near, and
the dunness of cloud takes the hues of the rose!"

Edith's hand paused from its vague employment, and fell droopingly on her
knee;--she turned with an unquiet and anxious eye to Hilda, and after
looking some moments wistfully at the Vala, the colour rose to her cheek,
and she said in a voice that had an accent half of anger:

"Hilda, thou art cruel!"

"So is Fate!" answered the Vala. "But men call not Fate cruel when it
smiles on their desires. Why callest thou Hilda cruel, when she reads in
the setting sun the runes of thy coming joy!"

"There is no joy for m