A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

now that it had come it had proved a disappointing illusion. Whether the fault was in herself or in her circumstances she did not know; but like so many girls of her age she was looking out on life with puzzled eyes, hardly knowing what it was that had gone amiss, yet conscious of a great want, of a great unrest, of a vague dissatisfaction which would not be reasoned down.

      “Cecil is looking poorly,” had been the home verdict; and the mother, not fully understanding the cause, but with a true instinct as to the remedy, had suggested that the brother and sister should spend a month abroad, grieving to lose Cecil from the usual family visit to the seaside, but perceiving with a mother’s wisdom and unselfishness that it was time, as she expressed it, for her young one to try its wings.

      So the big steamer plied its way up the fjord bearing Cecil Boniface and her small troubles and perplexities to healthy old Norway, to gain there fresh physical strength, and fresh insights into that puzzling thing called life; to make friendships, spite of her avowed unsociableness, to learn something more of the beauty of beauty, the joy of joy, and the pain of pain.

      She was no student of human nature; at present with girlish impatience she turned away from the tourists, frankly avowing her conviction that they were a bore. She was willing to let her fancy roam to the fortunes of some imaginary Rolf and Erica living, perhaps, in some one or other of the solitary red-roofed cottages to be seen now and then on the mountain-side; but the average English life displayed on the deck did not in the least awaken her sympathies, she merely classified the passengers into rough groups and dismissed them from her mind. There was the photographic group, fraternizing over the cameras set up all in a little encampment at the forecastle end. There was the clerical group, which had for its center no fewer than five gaitered bishops. There was the sporting group, distinguished by light-brown checked suits, and comfortable traveling-caps. There was the usual sprinkling of pale, weary, overworked men and women come for a much-needed rest. And there was the flirting group—a notably small one, however, for Norwegian traveling is rough work and is ill-suited to this genus.

      “Look, here, Blanche,” exclaimed a gray-bearded Englishman, approaching a pretty little brunette who had a most sweet and winsome expression, and who was standing so near to the camp-stool on which Cecil had ensconced herself that the conversation was quite audible to her. “Just see if you can’t make out this writing; your eyes are better than mine. It is from Herr Falck, the Norwegian agent for our firm. I dare say your father told you about him.”

      “Yes, papa said he was one of the leading merchants out here and would advise us what to see, and where to go.”

      “Quite so. This letter reached me just as I was leaving home, and is to say that Herr Falck has taken rooms for us at some hotel. I can read it all well enough except the names, but the fellow makes such outrageous flourishes. What do you make of this sentence, beginning with ‘My son Frithiof’?”

      “Uncle! uncle! what shocking pronunciation! You must not put in an English ‘th.’ Did you never hear of the Frithiof Saga? You must say it quickly like this—Freet-Yoff.”

      “A most romantic name,” said Mr. Morgan. “Now I see why you have been so industrious over your Norwegian lessons. You mean to carry on a desperate flirtation with Herr Frithiof. Oh! that is quite clear—I shall be on the lookout!”

      Blanche laughed, not at all resenting the remark, though she bent her pretty face over the letter, and pretended to have great difficulty in reading Herr Falck’s very excellent English.

      “Do you want to hear this sentence?” she said, “because if you do I’ll read it.”

      “ ‘My son Frithiof will do himself the honor to await your arrival at Bergen on the landing-quay, and will drive you to Holdt’s Hotel, where we have procured the rooms you desired. My daughter Sigrid (See-gree) is eager to make the acquaintance of your daughter and your niece, and if you will all dine with us at two o’clock on Friday at my villa in Kalvedalen we shall esteem it a great pleasure.’ ”

      “Two-o’clock dinner!” exclaimed Florence Morgan, for the first time joining in the general conversation. “What an unheard-of hour!”

      “Oh! everything is primitive simplicity out here,” said Mr. Morgan. “You needn’t expect London fashions.”

      “I suppose Frithiof Falck will be a sort of young Viking, large-boned and dignified, with a kind of good-natured fierceness about him,” said Blanche, folding the letter.

      “No, no,” said Florence, “he’ll be a shy, stupid country bumpkin, afraid of airing his bad English, and you will step valiantly into the breach with your fluent Norwegian, and your kindness will win his heart. Then presently he will come up in his artless and primitive way with a Vaer saa god (if you please) and will take your hand. You will reply Mange tak (many thanks), and we shall all joyfully dance at your wedding.”

      There was general laughter, and some trifling bets were made upon the vexed question of Frithiof Falck’s appearance.

      “Well,” said Mr. Morgan, “it’s all very well to laugh now, but I hope you’ll be civil to the Falcks when we really meet. And as to you, Cyril,” he continued, turning to his nephew, a limp-looking young man of one-and-twenty, “get all the information you can out of young Falck, but on no account allow him to know that your father is seriously thinking of setting you at the head of the proposed branch at Stavanger. When that does come about, of course Herr Falck will lose our custom, and no doubt it will be a blow to him; so mind you don’t breathe a word about it, nor you either, girls. We don’t want to spoil our holiday with business matters, and besides, one should always consider other people’s feelings.”

      Cecil set her teeth and the color rose to her cheeks; she moved away to the other side of the deck that she might not hear any more.

      “What hateful people! they don’t care a bit for the kindness and hospitality of these Norwegians. They only mean just to use them as a convenience.” Then as her brother rejoined her she exclaimed, “Roy, who are those vulgar people over on the other side?”

      “With two pretty girls in blue ulsters? I think the name is Morgan, rich city people. The old man’s not bad, but the young one’s a born snob. What do you think I heard him say as he was writing his name in the book and caught sight of ours. ‘Why, Robert Boniface—that must be the music-shop in Regent Street. Norway will soon be spoiled if all the cads take to coming over.’ And there was I within two yards of him.”

      “Oh, Roy! he couldn’t have known or he would never have said it.”

      “Oh, yes, he knew it well enough. It was meant for a snub, richly deserved by the presuming tradesman who dared to come to Norway for his holiday instead of eating shrimps at Margate, as such cattle should, you know!” and Roy laughed good-humoredly. Snubs had a way of gliding off him like water off a duck’s back.

      “I should have hated it,” said Cecil. “What did you do?”

      “Nothing; studied Baedeker with an imperturbable face, and reflected sapiently with William of Wykeham that neither birth nor calling but ‘manners makyth man.’ But look! this must be Bergen. What a glorious view! If only you had time to sketch it just from here!”

      Cecil, after one quick exclamation of delight, was quite silent, for indeed few people can see unmoved that exquisite view which is unfolded before them as they round the fjord and catch the first glimpse of the most beautiful town in Norway. Had she been alone she would have allowed the tears of happiness to come into her eyes, but being on a crowded steamer she fought down her emotion and watched in a sort of dream of delight the picturesque wooden houses, the red-tiled roofs, the quaint towers and spires, the clear still fjord, with its forest of masts and rigging, and the mountains rising steep and sheer, encircling Bergen like so many hoary old giants who had vowed to protect the town.

      Meanwhile, the deck resounded with those comments which are so very irritating to most lovers of scenery; one long-haired æsthete gave vent to a fresh adjective of admiration about once a minute, till Roy and Cecil were forced to flee from him and to take refuge among the sporting fraternity, who occasionally admitted