'So it was you,' he said, 'playing the violin so well?'
'I was doin' my best,' answered Robert. 'But eh! Mr. Ericson, I wad
hae dune better gin I had kent ye was hearkenin'.'
'You couldn't do better than your best,' returned Eric, smiling.
'Ay, but yer best micht aye grow better, ye ken,' persisted Robert.
'Come into my room,' said Ericson. 'This is Friday night, and there
is nothing but chapel to-morrow. So we'll have talk instead of
work.'
In another moment they were seated by a tiny coal fire in a room one
side of which was the slope of the roof, with a large, low skylight
in it looking seawards. The sound of the distant waves, unheard in
Robert's room, beat upon the drum of the skylight, through all the
world of mist that lay between it and them--dimly, vaguely--but ever
and again with a swell of gathered force, that made the distant
tumult doubtful no more.
'I am sorry I have nothing to offer you,' said Ericson.
'You remind me of Peter and John at the Beautiful Gate of the
temple,' returned Robert, attempting to speak English like the
Northerner, but breaking down as his heart got the better of him.
'Eh! Mr. Ericson, gin ye kent what it is to me to see the face o'
ye, ye wadna speyk like that. Jist lat me sit an' leuk at ye. I
want nae mair.'
A smile broke up the cold, sad, gray light of the young eagle-face.
Stern at once and gentle when in repose, its smile was as the
summer of some lovely land where neither the heat nor the sun shall
smite them.
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