It was not all plain sailing, though the start was fair. They tell how, once upon a time, a lad brought home a wild kitling from the woods, and nursed it up among the house-cats by the hearth. So it was at Greenodd with Raineach.

With the best will in the world, she found it hard to learn their ways, and quite beyond her to follow them. At first there was the labour of a new speech to get. Thorstein had picked up her talk with ease: but she could never frame her lips to the strange sounds, nor force her thoughts into the words of the North-folk. She would be eager to chatter, and brimful of news, or wonderment, or recollection, or explanation: helping herself out with gestures, and the forcefulness of her native manner, unlike the slow steadiness of the Northern delivery, and strange to them and disquieting. And in the midst of it all, a word wrongly spoken, and drolly misinterpreting her meaning, would set them all roaring with laughter. At which she would be vexed and sulk: for her people were grave and staid, though forceful and rapid in speech and gesture: while the Northmen, slow of speech and drawling, were ready with rough jokes and childish fooling. So she took their laughter in bad part: and they took her glumping for the sign of a bad heart: and Thorstein had work enough to come between them all.

And then she could never learn the deft neatness of their household ways, their cleanliness in kitchen and diary, and tidiness of table and chamber, and handy management of needle and shuttle and rock. If there were doubt in their counsels, mishap with beasts or men, or any grave trouble befalling, who but Raineach was run to for help: for she kept her head, while the other women-folk were shrieking and scurrying; and she was dry-eyed while they were weeping; or sober while they giggled like fools. But even for that they thought worse of her, as one who had not the feelings of other folk, and never laughed nor greeted when she ought, nor was shocked like a decent lass, nor disgusted like a dainty one.

And that bush of red hair was never dressed for long; and her kirtle was torn, and cobbled up coarsely; and her kerchief awry; and her work fouled with losing, and leaving in corners, and crumpling in hasty forgetfulness. And if sometimes she was the pride of them all, for her tall, slim strength, and her bright bonny face with the proud high-set cheek and brent brow, and with the earnest friendliness that shone in her eyes; at other whiles she was dismal, and the light faded out of her, and she was no better than a draggle-tailed slut, they said. And then nothing healed her but a run with Thorstein on the fell, and unmaidenly scraffling among the beasts, or rough pulling and hauling at the boat-sheds with Hundi and the ship-wrights. Unna would often say over to herself how much she owed the lass for Thorstein’s sake, and how much she might do for the lass to bring her into shape: and so schooled herself to be good to her: but it was not always easy to keep back a sharp word; and a sharp word spoiled everything.

Thorstein too was a puzzle to them. Every indoor business he shirked, and cared only for herding and boating and the rough work of the farm. He had been so long on the fells that quiet life came amiss to him: and often by the fireside at nights, as that winter wore, he would fidget and worry until he found a call for turning out, so that even the shepherds bade him leave them in peace to look after their own job. Then he took to hunting: and they owned he was a famous hunter. He would fish in the firth, day and night and all weathers, as if he had a bear’s warmth in him. They were glad of the fish he brought home: but it was irksome to have him bring in his dripping self along with it, to reek and simmer by the hearth, when all was redd up and snug for the evening. “Folk must do as folk do,” said they behind his back: but when they said it to his face he looked ugly, and Unna dreaded a fight with Orm one of those days.

So the nights wore on to Yule: and then came a messenger from over the fell to bid the Greenodd folk to Asmundarlea for the feast-tide: and “Over and above that,” said he, “my mistress Asdis bade thee in especial, Thorstein Sweinson, and charged thee to bring the young may, for she would fain know her, and make a sister of her.”

When Raineach understood that this was the lass that had laughed at her, on that dreadful day which nobody ever named, she said flatly that she would not go. But Unna begged hard, and told her that the lass was good at heart, and meant all kindly, and that it would be a feather in her cap to win such a friend. So Raineach dared say no more, though she loathed the journey.

But Thorstein found her some right bonny fairings and tricked her out as never was: and Raineach was child enough to be proud of her attire, and said in her heart she would be a match for them all. And they took her on a nag like any lady, and rode over the fell, and were received heartily; and all went well at first.

Asdis was a handsome lass in her way: less tall and strong than Raineach, but far more snod and neat and womanlike. Raineach at her best was a wild-wood goddess, and at her worst she was a grey-faced tatterling again: but Asdis was always the same, blithe and bonny, well set up and well seen to. So that one would have thought there need be no strife between them.

But the very next day Asdis was at her tricks: and every one but Thorstein aided and abetted her in showing off poor Raineach in little things, that bit and stung like midges on a wet mid-summer eve. She would flatter till Raineach was led into simpering, and then they chuckled: she would ask her advice about tapestry stitches, and Raineach, seeing no malice, would give grave counsels that a body might see were nought: she would mock her gait and manner of eating, and entice her to say the words she always said wrong; and folk would laugh; and even Thorstein laughed as one who couldn’t help it. Then Asdis cast a sheep’s eye at him, and as it were claimed him for her friend and ally, and Raineach was furious, and paled, and blushed, and wept, and sulked. Asdis did it all so cleverly, and was so pretty and innocent over it, that even Thorstein would take her part and bid Raineach not be a fool. She promised to amend, and was bitterly ashamed, and tried again: and so it went on until they were all glad to part and get home again. And Master Asmund at the farewell clapped Thorstein on the back and said “Well, lad, we’ll not forget, and we look to see thee when thou art tired of Greenodd and all thy folk.” And so the lad was set up with himself, and vexed with Raineach, thinking that she had spoiled their sport, and was after all no better than a pettish child.

One day when Yule was well over, his mother called him aside and “Lad,” she said, “I doubt I am wearying of these doings. It’s not that I don’t love the lass from my heart, and there’s nothing I would not do for her. But its dreigh work putting up with her whimsies, and setting things to right after her. Never a stitch she sets, but I have to unpick it: never a pat of butter she turns, but I have to wash it: what, and she was stirring the cream this very day with a horn spoon when the rowan thival was there at hand. And she slaps the servant lasses if they so much as smile, and she has words with the men, aye, even with Orm himself. Why, he said to me this very day, Mother, said he, tell that young spitfire that I’ll have no more of her sauce; let her know who is master here, said he.”

“Well, mother,” said Thorstein, “Raineach is a good lass, and means well.”

“Nay, never doubt it,” said his mother. “But she does ill, and sets us all by the ears. It’s grieved I am to say it, but I would be thankful if one she would hearken to gave her a word and got her to amend.”

“You are hard on her, mother. You all said you’d take her for one of us, and make her at home. And its nothing but tease and worry, till the poor child never knows whether she’s on her head or her heels.”

“Nay, Thorstein: that’s not a fair word to the mother that bore thee. Who brought her here? Who fetched the wild cat into the house?”

Then he was angry, and she was angry, and they had high words, and parted with little peace between them.

He went out to look for Raineach, and “Lass,” he said, “what hast thou done to set them all against thee?”

“I?” said she. “Peace for shame, Thorstein!”

“Nay,” he answered, moodily. “It’s truth. Here’s mother can stand it no more, and Orm fit to turn us out of the house.”

“Well then, I’ll go for one. Thou canst stay if thou wilt.”

“Raineach,” he said, “hear reason.”

“Little reason in you folk,” she answered. “And thou, Thorstein, once I thought—.” But she burst into weeping, and fled away.

Thorstein turned in again, angry with her, and more angry with his folk, and angry most of all with himself. As he sat and thought it out it seemed to him that this would blow over like other storms, and that Raineach would surely come back to supper. But supper-time came, and no Raineach.

“What’s to do with the lass?” said Unna. “Well, hungry folk can’t wait, and I’ll keep a bite against she comes.”

“Nay,” said Orm, “sulky dogs go supperless.”

But Thorstein was uneasy, for he had never before parted from her in anger. He left his porridge in the bowl and went out. It was starlight, and snowy, and he called her name. But the sound died away over the dim white fields: and he went forward calling for her, and into the fields and up to the ford.

He searched high and low, far into the night: and knocked at the thralls’ cots to ask for her. At last one said, coming sleepily to the door, that he had seen her in the gloaming making her way to the fell through the bare woods. He knew it was the wild may by the glint of red in the boughs on the snow. Then Thorstein was terribly fleyed, and ran to seek the place where she had been seen. He found her track in the snow and followed it up, leaping with all his might, breathless, and stopping only now and again to call, and to listen for an answer. The late moon rose, and her traces were still there, the little holes where her feet had gone, and the blur where she had stumbled or rested.

It was long before he found her, plodding ahead up the fell, far beyond their bounds.

“Let me go,” she cried, “to my own people. Let be, and forget Raineach.”

“To thy people?” he said; “then I follow.” And he tramped onwards by her side.

After a while she said, “They will kill thee. Go back.”

“What do I care?” said he; and they went on.

Again she said, “Thorstein, thou art a fool.”

“No news,” said he.

Then it began to dawn: and they were far on the moor, and the mountains stood tall on the rosy sky. She sat down in the snow, and he sat beside her. Suddenly she put her hands before her face and burst out into wild laughing. “Fools we are both,” she said. “Look at yon sky, and our own fells, white and still. And we with storm and blackness in our hearts. Oh Thorstein, wouldst thou truly go with me?”

“To the end of the world,” said he.

“And beyond?”

He took her in his arms, and the sunrise brightened upon them. Long they sat together in the glow, and forgot the night, and the blackness in their hearts, and all the evil of bygone days. They seemed to have grown old, now, and wise. What silly children they had been, once.

It was late in the afternoon when they came into Greenodd hall, where all went on as ever: but the two were changed, and saw the spot as in a dream.

“Mother,” said he, “I have brought her back. Let us rest here awhile: and give us thy blessing. We’ll trouble the house no more: give us time, and we’ll away to a spot of our own.”

“Children,” said Unna, “what game is this?”

“I am a man now, mother,” said he. “I can fend for myself, with her to help me. Never say nay: we have it all planned, and ask nothing but good-will.”

“Good-will, my son you have: aye, the best. But, barn, hear reason. You are young yet, and little you know of life. Bide awhile; take your time. Who but guessed what it was coming to? But Thorstein lad, if thou love thy lass, be guided. There’s house to build, lad, and gear to get. Will you live in the wood, and eat mast like swine, with a starving brood of piglings running naked in the mire? A man, lad, takes a man’s rede: and a woman, lass, must grow womanly. Is it all done in a night?”