at Soeren
never noticed it.

Blockhead, he used to call her--right up to his illness. About a
week before his death they had spoken of the future, and Soeren had
comforted Maren by saying: "'Twill all be right for you, Maren--if
but you weren't such a blockhead."

For the first time Maren had protested against this, and Soeren, as
was his wont, referred to the case of Soerine: "Ay, and did you see
what was wrong with the girl, what all saw who set eyes on her? And
was it not yourself that fed her with soft soap and paraffin?"

"Maybe 'twas," answered Maren, unmoved.

Soeren looked at her with surprise: well to be sure--but behind her
look of innocence gleamed something which staggered him for once.
"Ay, ay," said he. "Ay, ay! 'twas nigh jail that time."

Maren good-naturedly blinked her heavy eyelids. "'Tis too good some
folks are to be put there," answered she.

Soeren felt as if cold water were running down his back; here had he
lived with Maren by his side for forty-five years, and never taken
her for anything else but a good-natured blockhead--and he had
nearly gone to his grave with that opinion. And perhaps after all it
was she who had mastered him, and that by seeming a fool herself.

CHAPTER VIII

WISE MAREN

The heavy waves crashed on the shore. Large wet flakes of snow
hurled themselves on bushes and grass; what was not caught by the
high cliffs was frozen to ice in the air and chased before the
storm.

The sea was foaming. The skies were all one great dark gray whirl,
with the roaring breakers beneath. It was as if the abyss itself
threw out its inexhaustible flood of cold and wickedness. Endlessly
it mounted from the great deep; dense to battle against, and as fire
of hell to breathe.

Two clumsy figures worked their way forward over the sandhills, an
old grandmother holding a little girl by the hand. They were so
muffled up, that they could hardly be distinguished in the thick
haze.

Their movements were followed by watchful eyes, in the huts on the
hills women stood with faces pressed flat against the window-panes!
"'Tis wise Maren battling against the storm," they told the old and
the sick within. And all who could, crawled to the window. They must
see for themselves.

"'Tis proper weather for witches to be out," said youth, and
laughed. "But where is her broomstick?"

The old ones shook their heads. Maren ought not to be made fun of;
she had the _Gift_ and did much good. Mayb