A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

me write to him and ask his consent,” exclaimed Frithiof.

      “No, no, do not write. Come over to England in October and see him yourself, that will be so much better.”

      “Must we wait so long?” said Frithiof, his face clouding.

      “It is only a few weeks; papa will not be at home till then. Every one is away from London, you know. Don’t look so anxious; I do not know your face when it isn’t happy—you were never meant to be grave. As for papa, I can make him do exactly what I like, you need not be afraid that he will not consent. Come! I have promised to trust to you, and yet you doubt me.”

      “Doubt you!” he cried. “Never! I trust you, before all the world; and if you tell me to wait—why then—I must obey.”

      “How I love you for saying that,” cried Blanche, clinging to him. “To think that you who are so strong should say that to me! It seems wonderful. But indeed, indeed, you need not doubt me. I love you with my whole heart. I love you as I never thought it possible to love.”

      Frithiof again clasped her in his arms, and there came to his mind the sweet words of Uhland:

      “Gestorben war ich

      Vor Liebeswonn,

      Begraben lag ich

      In Ihren Armen;

      Erwechet ward ich

      Von Ihren Küssen,

      Den Himmel sah ich

      In Ihren Augen.”

CHAPTER IV.

       Table of Contents

      “We were beginning to think some accident had happened to you,” said Sigrid, who stood waiting at the door of the hotel.

      “And so it did,” said Blanche, laughing, “I think I should have broken my neck if it hadn’t been for your brother. It was all the fault of this treacherous alpenstock which played me false.”

      And then, with a sympathetic little group of listeners, Blanche gave a full account of her narrow escape.

      “And you are really not hurt at all? Not too much shaken to care to dance to-night?”

      “Not a bit,” said Blanche merrily. “And you promised to put on your peasant costume and show us the spring dans, you know.”

      “So I did. I must make haste and dress, then,” and Sigrid ran upstairs, appearing again before long in a simply made dark skirt, white sleeves and chemisette, and red bodice, richly embroidered in gold. Her beautiful hair was worn in two long plaits down her back, and the costume suited her to perfection. There followed a merry supper in the dépendence where all meals were served; then every one adjourned to the hotel salon, the tables and chairs were hastily pushed aside, and dancing began.

      Herr Falck’s eyes rested contentedly on the slim little figure in the maize-colored dress who so often danced with his son; and, indeed, Blanche looked more lovely than ever that evening, for happiness and excitement had brightened her dark eyes, and deepened the glow of color in her cheeks. The father felt proud, too, of his children, when, in response to the general entreaty, Frithiof and Sigrid danced the spring dans together with its graceful evolutions and quaint gestures. Then nothing would do but Frithiof must play to them on the violin, after which Blanche volunteered to teach every one Sir Roger de Coverly, and old and young joined merrily in the country dance, and so the evening passed on all too rapidly to its close. It was a scene which somehow lived on in Cecil’s memory; the merry dancers, the kindly landlord, Ole Kvikne, sitting near the door and watching them, the expression of content visible in Herr Falck’s face as he sat beside him, the pretty faces and picturesque attire of Sigrid and Swanhild, the radiant beauty of Blanche Morgan, the unclouded happiness of Frithiof.

      The evening had done her good; its informality, its hearty unaffected happiness and merriment made it a strange contrast to any other dance she could recollect; yet even here there was a slight shadow. She could not forget those words which she had overheard on board the steamer, could not get rid of the feeling that some trouble hung over the Falck family, and that hidden away, even in this Norwegian paradise, there lurked somewhere the inevitable serpent. Even as she mused over it, Frithiof crossed the room and made his bow before her, and in another minute had whirled her off. Happiness shone in his eyes, lurked in the tones of his voice, added fresh spirit to his dancing; she thought she had never before seen such an incarnation of perfect content. They talked of Norwegian books, and her interest in his country seemed to please him.

      “You can easily get English translations of our best novelists,” he said. “You should read Alexander Kielland’s books, and Bjornsen’s. I have had a poem of Bjornsen’s ringing all day in my head; we will make Sigrid say it to us, for I only know the chorus.”

      Then as the waltz came to an end he led her toward his sister, who was standing with Roy near the piano.

      “We want you to say us Bjornsen’s poem, Sigrid, in which the refrain is, ‘To-day is just a day to my mind.’ I can’t remember anything but the chorus.”

      “But it is rather a horrid little poem,” said Sigrid, hesitating.

      “Oh, let us have it, please let us have it,” said Blanche, joining them. “You have made me curious now.”

      So Sigrid, not liking to refuse, repeated first the poem itself and then the English translation:

      “The fox lay under the birch-tree’s root

      Beside the heather;

      And the hare bounded with lightsome foot

      Over the heather;

      ‘To-day is just a day to my mind,

      All sunny before and sunny behind

      Over the heather!’

      And the fox laughed under the birch-tree’s root

      Beside the heather;

      And the hare frolicked with heedless foot

      Over the heather;

      ‘I am so glad about everything!’

      ‘So that is the way you dance and spring

      Over the heather!’

      And the fox lay in wait by the birch-tree’s root

      Beside the heather;

      And the hare soon tumbled close to his foot

      Over the heather;

      ‘Why, bless me! is that you, my dear!

      However did you come dancing here

      Over the heather?’ ”

      “I had forgotten that it ended so tragically,” said Frithiof, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Well, never mind, it is only a poem; let us leave melancholy to poets and novelists, and enjoy real life.”

      Just then a polka was struck up and he hastily made his bow to Blanche.

      “And yet one needs a touch of tragedy in real life,” she observed, “or it becomes so dreadfully prosaic.”

      “Oh,” said Frithiof, laughing, as he bore her off; “then for Heaven’s sake let us be prosaic to the end of the chapter.”

      Cecil heard the words, they seemed to her to fit in uncannily with the words of the poem; she could not have explained, and she did not try to analyze the little thrill of pain that shot through her heart at the idea. Neither could she have justified to herself the shuddering repulsion she felt when Cyril Morgan drew near, intercepting her view of Frithiof and Blanche.

      “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he said, in his condescending tone.

      “Thank