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“’Twas well you met Pall this morning, lad. His wife and two little children were waiting for him to come home.”

The words gave Ormarr the courage he had lacked.

“Father, may I give him Blesa? His cow won’t calve for six weeks, and they’ve no milk.”

“I’ve promised Pall to send him Skjalda, and a few loads of hay the first fine day the roads are passable. And I am going to take little Gudrun to live here—they’ve enough to do as it is.”

Ormarr’s heart was full of thankfulness to his father for his kindness to Pall. But he was shy of speaking; words might say less than he meant. And there must be no misunderstanding between his father and himself—this thought was always in Ormarr’s mind, for he loved his father deeply. Now in the darkness of the room, he could hardly distinguish his features, but in his mind’s eye he saw him clearly, sitting there on the bedside. He knew every line in the calm, composed face, finely framed in the dark hair and brown beard. Often he had been told that there was not a handsomer man to be found than his father. He had the physique of an athlete, and Ormarr knew his every movement and attitude. He strove now to breathe all his love towards the loved figure, vaguely seen in reality, yet clear as ever to his mind. He felt that his father could not fail to perceive the mute expression of his loving gratitude.