twigs and brushwood, while he sat and looked on. She always carried along with her one of her father’s sea jackets and a bed-spread for him; in these she would wrap him. She tended the fire and he went to sleep; she kept herself awake with snatches of songs and hymns, singing in a loud clear voice until he was asleep, then in a softer tone. When the sun once more rose in the opposite horizon, and cast over the mountains a pale yellow light as a harbinger of its approach, she would awaken him. The forest was still dark, the meadow gloomy, but both gradually became suffused with a gleaming, roseate light until the mountain crest glowed and all the colors of the rainbow came pouring over the scene. Then they would push the boat back into the water, plow the waves in the dark morning breeze, and soon near the shore where the other fishermen were anchored.
When winter set in and the trips ceased, he sought her in her home; he came frequently and watched her while she worked; but neither he nor she spoke much; it seemed as if they were merely waiting together for the summer. When it came it robbed him, alas, of the new prospects life was unfolding to him, Gunlaug’s father died, and she left the town, while Pedro, by the advice of his teachers, was put into the
