. . .All this made within her a sort of eager restlessness; often during the day she had started on some errand in her work, and had left it with a sigh unfinished or had forgotten what she had intended; often too she had looked at the sword-hilt gleaming against the dark ash-stem, and thrills of unaccountable expectation had been hers suddenly and unconjecturably sweet. But as the day went on, the storm grew even fiercer, though it seemed to her that a warmth and languor was in the air, and tardily enough and with limbs unstrung she went about the time of sunset to the store-house. The bread she had made that morning was there, and the venison which Hunding had killed two days before. Then from the store she took honey to make mead for his drink, when suddenly she heard the house door bang, and hate surged bitterly into her throat, for she knew that it must be her husband come home. And whether it was the coming of spring that troubled her blood or not, she felt then for him. . . Read More