‘What is’t?’

’One may not know just how to get there, even after you have shewed the way.’

Rollo was not speaking lightly; but Gyda as she went back to her seat only answered,

‘Ye can always ask.’

’Whom would you bid me ask, Gyda?  I would about as lieve come to you as anybody, if I wanted counsel.’

’Give yourself to God, lad, and ye’ll know there’s but One to ask of.  And there’s but One before that, if ye want real help.’

There was a minute’s pause; and then Rollo asked what Gyda had for him to do.  ‘Not yet,’ she answered; and with that left the room.  Rollo brought his chair to Wych Hazel’s side.

‘She is going to get you some supper,’ he said, with a smile.

’No, it will be all for you,—­and you will give me part of it.  I should think you would come here very often, Mr. Rollo.’

‘Do you?’ said he, looking pleased.  ’That shews I did right to bring you here.  Now you’ll have a Norse supper—­the first you ever had.  Gyda is Norse herself, I told you; she is a Tellemarken woman.  If we were in Norway now, there would be in the further end of this room two huge cribs, which would be the sleeping place for the whole family.  Overhead would be fishing nets hanging from the rafters, and a rack with a dozen or more rifles and fowling-pieces.  On the walls you would see collars for reindeer, powder-horns and daggers.  Gyda’s spinning-wheel is here, you see; and her stove, besides the fireplace for cooking.  Her dairy is a separate building, after Norway fashion, and so is her summer kitchen, where I know she is this minute, making porridge.  Can you eat porridge?’

’Truly I cannot say, Mr. Rollo.  But I do not often “thwart” myself—­as you may have observed.  Does the absence of Norse blood make the fact doubtful?’

‘Norse habit, say rather,’ said Rollo, shaking his head; ’Norse habit, induced by Norse necessity.  In many a Norwegian homestead you would get little besides porridge, often.  But Gyda likes it, and so do I. At any rate, it is invariable for a Norse meal, in this house.  It is one of the things which can be transplanted.  Gyda would have enjoyed a row of reindeer’s horns bristling along the eaves of her cottage; but I told her the boys of the Hollow would not leave them long if I set them there.’

‘But you are half Danish,’ said Wych Hazel.  ’And was it for love of Denmark that you got your name?’

‘Which name?  If you please?’

‘You know,’ said Wych Hazel, with a shy blush, as if it were a sort of freedom for her to know and speak it, ’they call you, “Dane Rollo.” ’

‘That’s not my name, though,’ said he, smiling.  ’I am no further a Dane than being born in Copenhagen makes me so.  I am half Norse, and a quarter German; Denmark has given me a nickname,—­that’s all.’