“I was thinking you would give me shelter for a short time on a day like this.”

“On a day like this,” replied he, “none but a fool would think of travelling; and if it’s shelter you’re seeking here, young Ericson, I say no!” and the unfeeling “No” was echoed by all the others in the room, with one exception.  That exception was Thora.

I saw the girl’s hands quickly clench when she heard this unkind dismissal, and in her blue eyes the tears welled up and stole gently down her fair cheeks.

I felt that the “No” could be easily withstood, but the tears in Thora’s eyes overcame me.  I gave her a look of thanks, closed the door behind me, and again faced the storm, first going round to the back of the house to take up in my arms the body of my poor dog.  I hung up the otter’s skin on a hook in the byre, where I believed Thora would discover it, and so make what use of it she might.

I carried the dog still further, however.  Taking it down to a small creek that gave entrance to the seashore, I came to a rock that was washed by the deep waters, and here I tied a large stone around Selta’s neck and silently lowered the body into the sea, where the great waves of the Atlantic murmured a solemn requiem.

Then, regaining the top of the cliff, I stood for a time looking seaward, where the curling waves swept in from the west and dashed with terrible strength against the hard rocks of granite.  There was no sail to be seen as far as my sight could penetrate through the driving rain mists; but I knew that the storm would be fatal to many a brave fisherman and sailor, and many a strong-built ship.

My sad thoughts and the noise of the breakers so much absorbed me that I felt conscious of nothing so much as my utter loneliness.  But as I stood there in my wretchedness, suddenly a hand was laid gently on my shoulder, and I looked round, to see Thora at my side, with a great cloak thrown about her, and her hair streaming in the wind.

“Halcro,” she said, “it is not this way I can see you turned from my father’s door in the rain and the wind, and with that wound in your foot.  Pm sorry he spoke to you like that, for I’m sure you’ll be tired and weary.

“I have brought you some oatcake—­see.  Eat it, while I mend your foot.”

Then she knelt down before me on the wet, mossy rock, took a piece of clean linen from under the cloak that covered her, and wiped clean my wound.  With her fingers she gently drew over the torn skin, and taking another piece of white cloth bandaged it neatly round my ankle.

While she was so employed I informed her of my fight with the otter and the loss of my dog, and her gentle sympathy was sweet to my troubled spirit.  And then I told her where she might find the otter’s skin, and how she should make use of it.

“There, now,” she said, putting a pin through the bandage and rising to her feet, “that will serve till you get home.”