d, as she took her babe in her arms and went
toward David.

"I am your far-cousin David Borson."

"The son of my father's cousin Liot?"

"Yes. Liot Borson is dead, and here am I."

"You are welcome, for you were to come. My father talked often of
his cousin Liot. They are both gone away from this world."

"I think they have found each other again. Who can tell?"

"Among the great multitude that no man can number, it might not be
easy."

"If God willed it so?"

"That would be sufficient. This is your little cousin Vala; she is
nearly two years old. Is she not very pretty?"

"I know not what to say. She is too pretty for words."

"Sit down, cousin, and tell me all."

And as they talked her eyes enthralled him. They were deep blue,
and had a solar brilliancy as if they imbibed light--holy eyes, with
the slow-moving pupils that indicate a religious, perhaps a mystical,
soul. David sat with her until sunset, and she gave him a simple
meal of bread and tea, and talked confidentially to him of Liot and
of her own father and brothers. But of herself she said nothing at
all; neither could David find courage to ask her a single question.

He watched her sing her child to sleep, and he sat down with her
on the door-step, and they talked softly together of death and of
judgment to come. And the women from the other huts gradually joined
them, and the soft Shetland night glorified the somber land and
the mysterious sea, until at last David rose and said he must go
back to Lerwick, for the day was over.

A strange day it had been to him; but he was too primitive to
attempt any reasoning about its events. When he left Nanna's he was
under that strong excitement which makes a man walk as if he were
treading upon the void, and there was a hot confusion in his thoughts
and feelings. He stepped rapidly, and the stillness of the lovely
night did not soothe or reason with him. As he approached the town
he saw the fishing-boats leaving the harbor, and in the fairy light
they looked like living things with outspread wings. Two fishers
were standing at a house door with a woman, who was filling a
glass. She held it aloft a moment, and then gave it to one with
the words: "Death to the heads that wear no hair!"

"The herring and the halibut, the haddock and the sole," answered the
man; and he drank a little, and passed it to his comrade. Then up
the street they hurried like belated men; and David felt the urging
of accustomed