him young, his skin slightly bronzed, his features good, if a trifle
heavy.

Yet as he sat down and I studied his head, what seemed most significant
about him was his hair. It was reddish-gold, thick, curled, and
upstanding, like the hair on the head of a lovely child, or in the
painting of a Titian or a Tintoretto.

In a way he seemed out of place. Young men of his type so rarely came to
church alone. Indeed, they rarely came to church at all. He seemed to
belong to the out-of-doors--to wide spaces. I was puzzled, too, by a
faint sense of having seen him before.

It was in the middle of the sermon that it all connected up. Years ago a
ship had sailed into the harbor, and I had been taken down to see it. I
had been enchanted by the freshly painted figurehead--a strong young god
of some old Norse tale, with red-gold hair and a bright blue tunic. And
now in the harbor was _The Viking_, and here, in the shadow of a
perfectly orthodox pulpit, sat that strong young god, more glorious even
than my memory of his wooden prototype.

He seemed to be absolutely at home--sat and stood at the right places,
sang the hymns in a delightful barytone which was not loud, but which
sounded a clear note above the feebler efforts of the rest of us.

It has always been my custom to welcome the strangers within our gates,
and I must confess to a preference for those who seem to promise
something more than a perfunctory interchange.

So as my young viking came down the aisle, I held out my hand. "We are