As the valley became wider it turned towards the northwest and we caught glimpses of tiny homes on the opposite side of the river. Desolate homes are these among the mountains, far away from neighbors. The farmers eke out a bare living with the produce of their sheep. Down came the wind in mighty gusts bringing rain and mists that shut out all distances. The winds came directly from the ice sheets and as the clouds shut out the sun the rain soon turned to a driving sleet. We were tired, cold and hungry and thoroughly in need of shelter. The top of a tiny spire showed itself through the mist below and I thought, “_Miklebaer_ at last.” Ólafur dashed our hopes by saying that this farm with its excellent buildings and its hospitable pastor was two hours ride beyond the metal church below us. He urged us forward but I refused as it was not possible to ride further, except in a case of life or death. So we reined into the _tún of Silfrastaðir_, Silver-Stead, and while we were dismounting a man, blind with age, tottered towards us on his cane and extended his trembling hand and in the Saga phrase, “he greeted us well.” That little tumbled down home in the mountain pass, that small bed in a cupboard in the wall, how good they looked to us! That Icelandic welcome! We had received it on the prosperous farms and in the city, yes in the more favored portions of the land, even in the home of the Governor, but never before, never since, has any abode seemed so pleasant and all other welcomes at home and abroad shrink in value when compared with the welcome and the cordial hospitality of this poor blind man of _Silfrastaðir_, who gave us the best he had and bade us “God speed” on the morrow.