Little Rol repeated it to himself, stroking and patting as before.
"White Fell, White Fell."

The fair face, and soft, beautiful dress pleased Rol. He knelt up,
with his eyes on her face and an air of uncertain determination,
like a robin's on a doorstep, and plumped his elbows into her lap
with a little gasp at his own audacity.

"Rol!" exclaimed his aunt; but, "Oh, let him!" said White Fell,
smiling and stroking his head; and Rol stayed.

He advanced farther, and panting at his own adventurousness in the
face of his aunt's authority, climbed up on to her knees. Her
welcoming arms hindered any protest. He nestled happily, fingering
the axe head, the ivory studs in her girdle, the ivory clasp at
her throat, the plaits of fair hair; rubbing his head against the
softness of her fur-clad shoulder, with a child's full confidence
in the kindness of beauty.

White Fell had not uncovered her head, only knotted the pendant
fur loosely behind her neck. Rol reached up his hand towards it,
whispering her name to himself, "White Fell, White Fell," then
slid his arms round her neck, and kissed her--once--twice. She
laughed delightedly, and kissed him again.

"The child plagues you?" said Sweyn.

"No, indeed," she answered, with an earnestness so intense as to
seem disproportionate to the occasion.