walked home
through the buffeting wind and the drenching rain, and felt neither;
for he was saying over and over to himself, "I have found my wife!
I have found my wife!"

Karen had the same prepossession. As she unbound her long, fair
hair she thought of Liot. Slowly unplaiting strand from strand, she
murmured to her heart as she did so:

"Such a man as Liot Borson I have never met before. It was easy to
see that he loved me as soon as he looked at me; well, then, Liot
Borson shall be my husband--Liot, and only Liot, will I marry."

It was at the beginning of winter that this took place, and it was
a kind of new birth to Liot. Hitherto he had been a silent man about
his work; he now began to talk and to sing, and even to whistle;
and, as every one knows, whistling is the most cheerful sound that
comes from human lips. People wondered a little and said, "It is
Karen Sabiston, and it is a good thing." Also, the doubts and fears
that usually trouble the beginnings of love were absent in this
case. Wherever Liot and Karen had learned each other, the lesson had
been perfected. At their third meeting he asked her to be his wife,
and she answered with simple honesty, "That is my desire."

This betrothal was, however, far from satisfactory to Karen's aunt;
she could bring up nothing against Liot, but she was ill pleased with
Karen. "You have some beauty," she said, "and you have one hundred
pounds of your own; and it was to be expected that you would look
to better yourself a little."

"Have I not done so? Liot is the best of men."

"And the best of men are but men at best. It is not of Liot I think,
but of Liot's money; he is but poor, and you know little of him.
Those before us have said wisely, 'Ere you run in double harness,
look well to the other horse.'"

"My heart tells me that I have done right, aunt."

"Your heart cannot foretell, but you might have sense enough to
forethink; and it is sure that I little dreamed of this when I
brought you here from the naked gloom of Yell."

"It is true your word brought me here, but I think it was Liot who
called me by you."

"It was not. When my tongue speaks for any Borson, I wish that
it may speak no more! I like none of them. Liot is good at need on
a winter's night; but even so, all his stories are of dool and
wrong-doing and bloody vengeance. From his own words it is seen that
the Borsons have ever been well-hated men. Now, I have forty years
more of this life th