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"
"He is a kind of poet in his own way," went on Errington, watching
Thelma as she listened intently to their conversation. "Do you know he
actually visited me on board here last night and begged me to go away
from the Altenfjord altogether? He seemed afraid of me, as if he thought
I meant to do him some harm."
"How strange!" murmured Thelma. "Sigurd never speaks to visitors,--he is
too shy. I cannot understand his motive!"
"Ah, my dear!" sighed her father. "Has he any motive at all? . . . and
does he ever understand himself? His fancies change with every shifting
breeze! I will tell you," he continued, addressing himself to Errington,
"how he came to be, as it were, a bit of our home. Just before Thelma
was born, I was walking with my wife one day on the shore, when we both
caught sight of something bumping against our little pier, like a large
box or basket. I managed to get hold of it with a boat-hook and drag it
in; it was a sort of creel such as is used to pack fish in, and in it
was the naked body of a half-drowned child.


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