A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

that we took a fatal dislike to them. I can well remember, as a little thing of four years old, sitting on the punishment chair in the nursery when all the others were out at play, and wishing that Adam and Eve hadn’t sinned.”

      “You all sound very merry,” said Roy, opening the door before the laugh which greeted this story had died away.

      “Why, how nice and early you are, Roy!” exclaimed Cecil. “Oh! mother has been telling us no end of stories, you ought to have been here to listen to them. And, Roy, we are most likely going to have those little children over the way to live with us till their father is out of prison again.”

      Roy seemed grave and preoccupied, but Cecil was too happy to notice that, and chattered on contentedly. He scarcely heard her, yet a sense of strong contrast made the home-likeness of the scene specially emphasized to him. He looked at his father leaning back in the great arm-chair, with reading-lamp and papers close by him, but with his eyes fixed on Cecil as she sat on the rug at his feet, the firelight brightening her fair hair; he looked at his mother on the opposite side of the hearth, in the familiar dress which she almost always wore—black silk with soft white lace about the neck and bodice, and a pretty white lace cap. She was busy with her netting, but every now and then glanced up at him.

      “You are tired to-night, Roy,” she said, when Cecil’s story had come to an end.

      “Just a little,” he owned. “Such a curious thing happened to me. It was a good thing you caught sight of me at Hyde Park Corner and stopped to ask about the trial, Cecil, for otherwise it would never have come about. Who do you think I met just as you drove on?”

      “I can’t guess,” said Cecil, rising from her place on the hearth-rug as the gong sounded for supper.

      “One of our Norwegian friends,” said Roy. “Frithiof Falck.”

      “What! is he actually in England?” said Cecil, taking up the reading-lamp to carry it into the next room.

      “Yes, poor fellow,” said Roy.

      Something in his tone made Cecil’s heart beat quickly; she could not have accounted for the strength of the feeling which suddenly overwhelmed her; she hardly knew what it was she feared so much, or why such a sudden panic had seized upon her; she trembled from head to foot, and was glad as they crossed the hall to hand the lamp to Roy, glancing up at him as she did so, apprehensively.

      “Why do you say poor fellow?” she asked. “Oh, Roy, what is the matter? what—what has happened to him?”

CHAPTER VIII.

       Table of Contents

      “The house seems quiet without Frithiof,” remarked Herr Falck on the Monday after his son’s departure.

      Frithiof at that very moment was walking through the streets of Hull, feeling lonely and desolate enough. They felt desolate without him at Bergen, and began to talk much of his return, and to wonder when the wedding would be, and to settle what presents they would give Blanche.

      The dining-room looked very pleasant on that October morning. Sigrid, though never quite happy when her twin was away, was looking forward eagerly to his return, and was so much cheered by the improvement in her father’s health and spirits that she felt more at rest than she had done for some time. Little Swanhild, whose passion for Blanche increased daily, was in the seventh heaven of happiness, and though she had not been told everything, knew quite well that the general expectation was that Frithiof would be betrothed to her ideal. As for Herr Falck he looked eager and hopeful, and it seemed as if some cloud of care had been lifted off him. He talked more than he had done of late, teased Swanhild merrily about her lessons, and kept both girls laughing and chattering at the table till Swanhild had to run off in a hurry, declaring that she should be late for school.

      “You should not tell such funny stories in the morning, little father!” she said laughingly, as she stopped for the customary kiss and “tak for maden” (thanks for the meal) on her way out of the room.

      “Ah, but to laugh is so good for the digestion,” said Herr Falck. “You will read English all the better in consequence. See if you don’t.”

      “Are you busy to-day, father?” asked Sigrid, as the door closed behind the little girl.

      “Not at all. I shall take a walk before going to the office. I tell you what, Sigrid, you shall come with me and get a new English story at Beyer’s, to cheer you in Frithiof’s absence. What was the novel some one told you gave the best description of English home life?”

      “ ‘Wives and Daughters,’ ” said Sigrid.

      “Well, let us get it then, and afterward we will take a turn above Walkendorf’s Tower, and see if there is any sign of our vessels from Iceland.”

      “You heard good news of them last month, did you not?” asked Sigrid.

      “No definite news, but everything was very hopeful. They sent word by the steamer to Granton, and telegraphed from there to our station in Öifjord.”

      “What did they say?”

      “That as yet there was no catch of herrings, but that everything was most promising, as plenty of whales were seen every day at the mouth of the fjord. Oh, I am perfectly satisfied. I have had no anxiety about the expedition since then.” So father and daughter set out together. It was a clear frosty morning, the wintry air was invigorating, and Sigrid thought she had never seen her father look so well before; his step seemed so light, his brow so smooth, his eyes so unclouded. Beyer’s shop had fascinations for them both; she lingered long in the neighborhood of the Tauchnitz shelves, while Herr Falck discussed the news with some one behind the counter, and admired the pictures so temptingly displayed.

      “Look here, Sigrid!” he exclaimed. “Did you ever see a prettier little water-color than that? Bergen in winter, from the harbor. What is the price of it? A hundred kroner? I must really have it. It shall be a present to you in memory of our walk.”

      Sigrid was delighted with the picture, and Herr Falck himself seemed as pleased with it as a child with a new toy. They talked away together, planning where it should hang at home and saying how it was just the sort of thing Frithiof would like.

      “It is quite a pity he did not see it when he was away in Germany, he would have liked to have it when he was suffering from Heimweh,” said Sigrid.

      “Well, all that sort of thing is over for him, I hope,” said Herr Falck. “No need that he should be away from Bergen any more, except now and then for a holiday. And if ever you marry a foreigner, Sigrid, you will be able to take Bergen with you as a consolation.”

      They made their way up to a little wooded hill above the fortress, which commanded a wide and beautiful view.

      “Ah!” cried Herr Falck. “Look there, Sigrid! Look, look! there is surely a vessel coming.”

      She gazed out seaward.

      “You have better eyes than I have, father. Whereabouts? Oh! yes, now I see, ever so far away. Do you think it is one of yours?”

      “I can’t tell yet,” said Herr Falck; and glancing at him she saw that he was in an agony of impatience, and that the old troubled look had come back to his face.

      Again the nameless fear which had seized her in the summer took possession of her. She would not bother him with questions, but waited silently beside him, wondering why he was so unusually excited, wishing that she understood business matters, longing for Frithiof, who would perhaps have known all about it and could have reassured her.

      “Yes, yes,” cried Herr Falck at length, “I am almost sure it is one of our Öifjord vessels. Yes! I am certain it is the ‘Solid.’ Now the great question is this—is she loaded or only ballasted?”

      The fresh, strong wind kept blowing Sigrid’s fringe about distractingly; sheltering her eyes