said merely as he offered her his arm,--

"What a pretty dress! Did it come out of Northwold?"

"The material did; I made it up, and I am glad that you think it nice."

This was a propitious beginning, and the dinner that followed did not
belie its promise. The conversation turned upon one of the Norse sagas
that Stella had translated, for which Morris had promised to try to find
a publisher. Then abandoning the silence and reserve which were habitual
to him he began to talk, asking her about her work and her past. She
answered him freely enough, telling him of her school days in Denmark,
of her long holiday visits to the old Danish grandmother, whose memory
stretched back through three generations, and whose mind was stored with
traditions of men and days now long forgotten. This particular saga,
she said, had, for instance, never been written in its entirety till she
took it down from the old dame's lips, much as in the fifteenth century
the Iceland sagas were recorded by Snorro Sturleson and others. Even the
traditional music of the songs as they were sung centuries ago she had
received from her with their violin accompaniments.

"I have one in the house," broke in Morris, "a violin--rather a good
instrument; I used to play a little when I was young. I wish, if you
don't mind, that you would sing them to me after dinner."

"I will try if you like," she answered, "but I don't know how I shall
get on, for my own old fiddle, to which I am accustomed, went to the
bottom with a lot of other things in that unlucky shipwreck. You know
we came by sea because it seemed so cheap, and that was the end of
our economy. Fortunately, all our heavy baggage and furniture were not
ready, and escaped."

"I do not call it unlucky," said Morris with grave courtesy, "since it
gave me the honour of your acquaintance; or perhaps I may say of your
friendship."

"Yes," she answered, looking pleased; "certainly you may say of my
friendship. It is owing to the man who saved my life, is it not,--with a
great deal more that I can never pay?"

"Don't speak of it," he said. "That midnight sail was my one happy
inspiration, my one piece of real good luck."

"Perhaps," and she sighed, "that is, for me, though who can tell? I have
often wondered what made you do it, there was so little to go on."

"I have told you, inspiration, pure inspiration."

"And what sent the inspiration, Mr. Monk?"

"Fate, I suppose."

"Yes, I think it must be w