with the herd.
And there, at the side of the hut, bending over a rough table, a woman stood. Trent, as he slowly approached, noted her short, rough skirt and coarse, sack-like upper garment, her thick grey stockings and clumsy clogs. About her bare head her pale gold hair was fastened in tight plaits. As she looked up on hearing Trent’s footfall, two heavy silver ear-rings dangled about the tanned and toil-worn face of this very type of the middle-aged peasant-woman of the region.
She ceased her task of scraping a large cake of chocolate into a bowl, and straightened her tall body; smiling, with her lean hands on her hips, she spoke in Norwegian, greeting him. Trent made the proper reply. “And that,” he added, in English, “is almost all of the language I know. Perhaps, madam, you speak English?”
Her light blue eyes looked puzzlement, and she spoke again in Norwegian, pointing downward to the valley. He nodded, and she began to talk pleasantly in her unknown tongue. From within the hut she brought two thick mugs; she pointed rapidly to the chocolate in the bowl, to himself and herself, then downward again to the village.
“I should like it of all things,” he said; “you are most kind and hospitable, like all your people. What a pity it is we have no language in common!” She brought him a stool and gave him the chocolate cake and a knife, making signs that he should continue the scraping; then within the hut she kindled a fire of twigs, and began to boil water in a black pot. Plainly it was her dwelling, the roughest Trent had ever seen. On two small shelves against the rough planks of the wall were ranged a few pieces of earthenware, coarse and chipped, but clean. A wooden bedplace, with straw and two neatly-folded blankets, filled a third of the space of the hut. All the carpentering was of the rudest. From a small chest in a corner she drew a biscuit-tin, half-full of flat cakes of stale bread. There seemed to be nothing else in the tiny place save a heap of twigs for firing.
She made chocolate in the two mugs, and then, on Trent’s insistence, sat upon the only stool at the little table outside the hut, while he made a seat of an upturned milk-pail. She continued to talk amiably, while he finished with difficulty one of the bread-cakes.
“I believe,” he said, at last, setting down his empty mug, “you are talking merely to hear the sound of your own voice, madam. It is excusable in you. You don’t understand English, so I will tell you to your face it is a most beautiful voice. I should say,” he went on, thoughtfully, “that you ought, with training, to have been one of the greatest soprano singers who ever lived.”
She heard him calmly, and shook her head, as not understanding.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t break it gently,” Trent protested. He rose to his feet. “Madam, I know that you are Lady Aviemore. I have broken in upon your solitude, and I ask your pardon for that; but I could not be sure unless I saw you. I give you my word that no one knows, and no one shall know from me, what I know.”
He made as if to return by the way he came. But the woman held up her hand. A singular change had come over her brown face. An open and lively spirit now looked out of her desolate blue eyes, and she smiled another and much more intelligent smile. After a few minutes she spoke in English, fluent but quaintly pronounced. “Sir,” she said, “you have behaved very nicely up till now. It has been amusing for me; there is not much comedy on the sater. Now will you have the goodness to explain.’’
He told her in a few words that he had suspected she was still alive; that he had thought over the facts which had come to his knowledge; and that he had been led to think she was probably in that place. “I thought you might guess that I had recognised you,” he added. “So it seemed best to assure you that your secret was safe. Was it wrong to speak?”
She shook her head, gazing at him
And there, at the side of the hut, bending over a rough table, a woman stood. Trent, as he slowly approached, noted her short, rough skirt and coarse, sack-like upper garment, her thick grey stockings and clumsy clogs. About her bare head her pale gold hair was fastened in tight plaits. As she looked up on hearing Trent’s footfall, two heavy silver ear-rings dangled about the tanned and toil-worn face of this very type of the middle-aged peasant-woman of the region.
She ceased her task of scraping a large cake of chocolate into a bowl, and straightened her tall body; smiling, with her lean hands on her hips, she spoke in Norwegian, greeting him. Trent made the proper reply. “And that,” he added, in English, “is almost all of the language I know. Perhaps, madam, you speak English?”
Her light blue eyes looked puzzlement, and she spoke again in Norwegian, pointing downward to the valley. He nodded, and she began to talk pleasantly in her unknown tongue. From within the hut she brought two thick mugs; she pointed rapidly to the chocolate in the bowl, to himself and herself, then downward again to the village.
“I should like it of all things,” he said; “you are most kind and hospitable, like all your people. What a pity it is we have no language in common!” She brought him a stool and gave him the chocolate cake and a knife, making signs that he should continue the scraping; then within the hut she kindled a fire of twigs, and began to boil water in a black pot. Plainly it was her dwelling, the roughest Trent had ever seen. On two small shelves against the rough planks of the wall were ranged a few pieces of earthenware, coarse and chipped, but clean. A wooden bedplace, with straw and two neatly-folded blankets, filled a third of the space of the hut. All the carpentering was of the rudest. From a small chest in a corner she drew a biscuit-tin, half-full of flat cakes of stale bread. There seemed to be nothing else in the tiny place save a heap of twigs for firing.
She made chocolate in the two mugs, and then, on Trent’s insistence, sat upon the only stool at the little table outside the hut, while he made a seat of an upturned milk-pail. She continued to talk amiably, while he finished with difficulty one of the bread-cakes.
“I believe,” he said, at last, setting down his empty mug, “you are talking merely to hear the sound of your own voice, madam. It is excusable in you. You don’t understand English, so I will tell you to your face it is a most beautiful voice. I should say,” he went on, thoughtfully, “that you ought, with training, to have been one of the greatest soprano singers who ever lived.”
She heard him calmly, and shook her head, as not understanding.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t break it gently,” Trent protested. He rose to his feet. “Madam, I know that you are Lady Aviemore. I have broken in upon your solitude, and I ask your pardon for that; but I could not be sure unless I saw you. I give you my word that no one knows, and no one shall know from me, what I know.”
He made as if to return by the way he came. But the woman held up her hand. A singular change had come over her brown face. An open and lively spirit now looked out of her desolate blue eyes, and she smiled another and much more intelligent smile. After a few minutes she spoke in English, fluent but quaintly pronounced. “Sir,” she said, “you have behaved very nicely up till now. It has been amusing for me; there is not much comedy on the sater. Now will you have the goodness to explain.’’
He told her in a few words that he had suspected she was still alive; that he had thought over the facts which had come to his knowledge; and that he had been led to think she was probably in that place. “I thought you might guess that I had recognised you,” he added. “So it seemed best to assure you that your secret was safe. Was it wrong to speak?”
She shook her head, gazing at him
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