The next day he died, and one of Ulfar's first thoughts was that the
death set him free from his promise for one year at the least. A year
contained a multitude of chances. He could afford to write to
Aspatria under such circumstances. So he answered her letter at
once, and it seemed proper to be affectionate, preparatory to
reminding her that their marriage was impossible until the mourning
for Sir Thomas was over. Also death had softened his heart, and
his father's last words had made him indeterminate and a little
superstitious. A clever woman of the world would not have believed
in this letter; its _aura_--subtle but persistent, as the perfume of
the paper--would have made her doubt its fondest lines. But Aspatria
had no idea other than that certain words represented absolutely
certain feelings.

The letter made her joyful. It brought back the roses to her cheeks,
the spring of motion to her steps. She began to work in her room once
more. Now and then her brothers heard her singing the old song she had
sung so constantly with Ulfar,--

"A shepherd in a shade his plaining made,
Of love, and lovers' wrong,
Unto the fairest lass that trod on grass,
And thus began his song:
'Restore, restore my heart again,
Which thy sweet looks have slain,
Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing,
Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing!

"'Since love and fortune will, I honour still
Your dark and shining eye;
What conquest will it be, sweet nymph, to thee,
If I for sorrow die?
Restore, restore my heart again,
Which thy sweet looks have slain,
Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing,
Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing!'"

But the lifting of the sorrow was only that it might press more
heavily. No more letters came; no message of any kind; none of the
pretty love-gages he delighted in giving during the first months of
their acquaintance. A gloom more wretched than that of death or
sickness settled in the old rooms of Seat-Ambar. William and Brune
carried its shadow on their broad, rosy faces into the hay-fields and
the wheat-fields. It darkened all the summer days, and dulled all the
usual mirth-making of the ingathering feasts. William was cross and
taciturn. He loved his sister with all his heart, but he did not know
how to sympathize with her. Even mother-love, when in great anxiety,
sometimes wraps itself in this unreasonable irritability. Brune
understood better. He h