nners so that I had left you little breath. Have you
forgotten? To me it is a delicious memory, and if it is not a painful
one to you, then all is well with both of us. But, oh, for the time
to come, when many a similar promise, and many a like breach of
manners, will wipe away the thought of this one! I am almost in love
with myself to think it was I who stood with you by the bridge at
Lague, and could find it in my heart, if it were only in my power, to
kiss the lips that kissed you. I'll do better than that some day.
What say you? But say nothing, for that's best, dearest. Ah,
Greeba--"

* * * * *

At this point there was a break in the letter, and what came after
was in a larger, looser, and more rapid handwriting.

"Your letter has this moment reached me. I am overwhelmed by the bad
news you send me. Your father has not yet come. Did his ship sail for
Reykjavik? Or was it for Hafnafiord? Certainly it may have put in at
the Orkneys, or the Faroes. But if it sailed a fortnight before you
wrote, it ought to be here now. I will make inquiries forthwith.

"I interrupted my letter to send a boat down the fiord to look. It is
gone. I can see it now skirting the Smoky Harbor on its way to the
Smoky Point. If your father comes back with it, he shall have a
thousand, thousand welcomes. The dear good man--how well I remember
that on the day I parted from him he rallied me on my fears, and
said he would yet come here to see me! Little did he think to come
like this. And the worst of his misfortunes have followed on his
generosities! Such bighearted men should have a store like the
widow's curse to draw from, that would grow no less, however often
they dipped into it. God keep him till we meet again and I hold once
more that hand of charity and blessing, or have it resting on my
head.

"I am anxious on your account also, dearest Greeba, for I know too
well what your condition must be in your mother's house. My dear
girl, forgive me for what I send you with this letter. The day I left
the island your father lent me fifty pounds, and now I repay it to
his daughter. So it is not a gift, and, if it were, you should still
take it from me, seeing there are no obligations among those who
love.

"The duties that hold me here are now for the first time irksome, for
I am longing for the chance of hastening to your side. But only say
that I may do so with your consent and all that goes with it, and I