d regarded
frost and snow, stormy winds and raging seas, poverty, pestilence,
and death, as part of the eternal necessity pursuing its never-ending
work through discord and imperfection. When there was a possibility
of casting the fifty fathoms of ling-lines, David and his helpers
were sure to venture out; when it was clearly impossible, he went
to Nanna's and sat with her.

To the ordinary observer there did not seem to be pleasure enough
in these visits to reward him for the stormy walk over the moor.
His clothing was often wet or stiff with frost, or he was breathless
with fighting the strong wind, and not infrequently he lost himself
in the bewildering snow; but with some trifle in his pocket for
Nanna, he always managed to reach her. It might be only a fish, or a
loaf of bread which Barbara had baked for her, or a little fresh
milk in a bottle; but it was an offering made rich by that true
affection which counted weariness rest for her sake.

He generally found her sitting brooding by her peat fire. Now, peat
is cheap in Shetland, and Nanna had no stint of the fuel, but it
does not make a cheerful fire. Its want of flame and its dull-red
glow stimulate sorrowful musing; and as there is little radiation
of heat from it, those whom it warms must sit close to its embers.
Thus David and Nanna passed many hours of that sad winter. The snow
often veiled what light of day there was, and the great sea-winds
shrieked around the hut and blew the peat smoke down the chimney
into their faces; and there was little warmth or comfort, and none
of the pretty accessories that love generally delights in.

But David's love was not dependent upon accidentals. He had seen
Nanna when he thought her very finely dressed; he had watched her
when she was happy with her child and contented with his friendship;
but she was not then more beautiful than she was now, when her eyes
were haunted by despairing thoughts, and her face white and sad,
and her noble form was shrouded rather than dressed in the black
gown of her loss and woe.

To David she was ever Nanna. It was the woman beneath the outward
form he desired--the woman whose tears and fears and wounded love
were part of his own sufferings, whose despair was his despair, whose
personality, even, affected something far deeper and chaster than
that physical emotion too often misnamed love. He knew that he could
live for her, however sorrowful life might be; he knew that he could
gladly