‘Let me run—­I hope,’ said Wych Hazel.

’I am going to take you where you have never been yet; through Morton Hollow and the mills, to see my old nurse, who lives a little way beyond them.’

‘I am not going through Morton Hollow,’ said Hazel, decidedly.

‘Why not?’

’You never heard of seven women who could “render a reason,” did you?’ said the girl, with a laugh in her voice.

‘My old nurse is a character,’ Rollo went on.  ’She is a Norse woman.  My mother, I must tell you, was also a Norse woman.  My father’s business at one time kept him much in Denmark and at St. Petersburg; and at Copenhagen he met my mother, who had been sent there to school.  And when my mother forsook her country, the old nurse, not old then, left all to go with her.  She was my nurse in my earliest years, and remained our most faithful friend while we were a family.  She made afterwards a not very happy marriage; and when her husband died just before I went to Europe, she was left alone and poor.  I arranged a small house for her in the neighbourhood of the Hollow; and there she lives—­a kind of mysterious oracle to the people about.  And her greatest earthly pleasure, I suppose, is to have me come and see her.  Gyda Boerresen is her name.’

‘I like to see people enjoy their greatest earthly happiness,’ said Hazel thoughtfully.  ’I never did many times.  Or at least not many people.’

’I want you to know Gyda.  I am not superstitious, like some of the ignorant people who visit her; but yet’—­he paused.  ’If ever you were in need of womanly counsel—­if ever you wanted sympathizing and wise help—­to find your way out of perplexities—­I should say, go to Gyda.  If any one could give that sort of help, she would.  And it is almost like going to a pythoness’, added Rollo thoughtfully; ’she is so cut off from the world and its people.’

They were almost at Mr. Falkirk’s cottage.  Rollo was silent a moment, then said, ’May I ask Mrs. Bywank to shew me hospitality again to-night?  I don’t want to go home.’

‘Mrs. Bywank will be only too glad,’ said Wych Hazel.  ’The little tower room always goes by your name, Mr. Rollo.’

‘She did not put me there the last time,’ said he, laughing, ’I was lodged in state and splendour!  Well, good night.  I wish you were coming to breakfast.’

She stood silent a minute, looking down.  Could she?  Might she?  Would it do?  Run away from Mr. Falkirk for a private frolic on the hill?  It was a great temptation!

And only doing the honours of her own house, when all was said.  Would it be strange?  Would he think it strange?  That is, not Mr. Falkirk, but Mr. Rollo.  Was he a man of sense, she wondered, who always disapproved of everything?  And with that a child’s look of search and exploration sought his face.  There was a grave sparkle in the eyes she met looking down at her.

‘I see a question in your face,’ said he.  ‘And I answer,—­yes!’