“The material did; I made it up, and I am glad that you think it nice.” This was a propitious beginning, and the dinner that followed did not belie its promise. The conversation turned upon one of the Norse sagas that Stella had translated, for which Morris had promised to try to find a publisher. Then abandoning the silence and reserve which were habitual to him he began to talk, asking her about her work and her past. She answered him freely enough, telling him of her school days in Denmark, of her long holiday visits to the old Danish grandmother, whose memory stretched back through three generations, and whose mind was stored with traditions of men and days now long forgotten. This particular saga, she said, had, for instance, never been written in its entirety till she took it down from the old dame’s lips, much as in the fifteenth century the Iceland sagas were recorded by Snorro Sturleson and others. Even the traditional music of the songs as they were sung centuries ago she had received from her with their violin accompaniments. “I have one in the house,” broke in Morris, “a violin—rather a good instrument; I used to play a little when I was young. I wish, if you don’t mind, that you would sing them to me after dinner.” “I will try if you like,” she answered, “but I don’t know how I shall get on, for my own old fiddle, to which I am accustomed, went to the bottom with a lot of other things in that unlucky shipwreck. You know we came by sea because it seemed so cheap, and that was the end of our economy. Fortunately, all our heavy baggage and furniture were not ready, and escaped.” “I do not call it unlucky,” said Morris with grave courtesy, “since it gave me the honour of your acquaintance; or perhaps I may say of your friendship.” “Yes,” she answered, looking pleased; “certainly you may say of my friendship. It is owing to the man who saved my life, is it not,—with a great deal more that I can never pay?” “Don’t speak of it,” he said. “That midnight sail was my one happy inspiration, my one piece of real good luck.” “Perhaps,” and she sighed, “that is, for me, though who can tell? I have often wondered what made you do it, there was so little to go on.” “I have told you, inspiration, pure inspiration.” “And what sent the inspiration, Mr. Monk?” “Fate, I suppose.” “Yes, I think it must be what we call fate—if it troubles itself about so small a thing as the life of one woman.” Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberland moors and mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existence among them, till at length it was time to leave the table. This they did together, for even then Morris drank very little wine. “May I get you the violin, and will you sing?” he asked eagerly, when they reached the library. “If you wish it I will try.” “Then come to the chapel; there is a good fire, and it is put away there.”