A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

that day it would be to hear that all was happily settled, and, taking it from the maid, she bore it herself into her father’s room. He rose from the sofa as she entered.

      “I am better, Sigrid,” he said. “I think I could go to the office. Ah! a telegram for me?”

      “It has come this minute,” she said, watching him as he sat down before his desk, adjusted his spectacles, and tore open the envelope. If only Frithiof could send news that would cheer him! If only some little ray of brightness would come to lighten that dark day! She had so persuaded herself that the message must be from Frithiof that the thought of the business anxieties had become for the time quite subservient. The telegram was a long one.

      “How extravagant that boy is!” she thought to herself. “Why, it would have been enough if he had just put ‘All right.’ ”

      Then a sudden cry broke from her, for her father had bowed his head on his desk like a man who is overwhelmed.

      “Father, father!” she cried, “oh! what is the matter?”

      For a minute or two neither spoke nor moved. At last, with an effort, he raised himself. He looked up at her with a face of fixed despair, with eyes whose anguish wrung her heart.

      “Sigrid,” he said, in a voice unlike his own, “they have taken the agency from me. I am bankrupt!”

      She put her hand in his, too much stunned to speak.

      “Poor children!” he moaned. “Ah! my God! my God! Why—?”

      The sentence was never ended. He fell heavily forward: whether he was dead or only fainting she could not tell.

      She rushed to the door calling for help, and the servants came hurrying to the study. They helped to move their master to the sofa, and Sigrid found a sort of comfort in the assurances of her old nurse that it was nothing but a paralytic seizure, that he would soon revive. The good old soul knew nothing, nor was she so hopeful as she seemed, but her words helped Sigrid to keep up; she believed them in the unreasoning sort of way in which those in trouble always do catch at the slightest hope held out to them.

      “I will send Olga for the doctor,” she said breathlessly.

      “Ay, and for your uncle, too,” said the nurse. “He’s your own mother’s brother, and ought to be here.”

      “Perhaps,” said Sigrid hesitatingly. “Yes, Olga, go to Herr Grönvold’s house and just tell them of my father’s illness. But first for the doctor—as quick as you can.”

      There followed a miserable time of waiting and suspense. Herr Falck was still perfectly unconscious; there were signs of shock about his face, which was pale and rigid, the eyelids closed, the head turned to one side. Sigrid took his cold hand in hers, and sat with her fingers on the pulse; she could just feel it, but it was very feeble and very rapid. Thus they waited till the doctor came. He was an old friend, and Sigrid felt almost at rest when she had told him all he wanted to know as to the beginning of the attack and the cause.

      “You had better send for your brother at once,” he said. “I suppose he will be at the office?”

      “Oh, no!” she said, trembling. “Frithiof is in England. But we will telegraph to him to come home.”

      “My poor child,” said the old doctor kindly, “if he is in England it would be of no possible use; he would not be in time.”

      She covered her face with her hands, for the first time utterly breaking down.

      “Oh! is there no hope?” she sobbed. “No hope at all?”

      “Remember how much he is spared,” said the doctor gently. “He will not suffer. He will not suffer at all any more.”

      And so it proved; for while many went and came, and while the bad news of the bankruptcy caused Herr Grönvold to pace the room like one distracted, and while Sigrid and Swanhild kept their sad watch, Herr Falck lay in painless quiet—his face so calm that, had it not been for an occasional tremor passing through the paralyzed limbs, they would almost have thought he was already dead.

      The hours passed on. At length little Swanhild, who had crouched down on the floor with her head in Sigrid’s lap, became conscious of a sort of stir in the room. She looked up and saw that the doctor was bending over her father.

      “It is over,” he said, in a hushed voice as he stood up and glanced toward the two girls.

      And Swanhild, who had never seen any one die, but had read in books of death struggles and death agonies, was filled with a great wonder.

      “It was so quiet,” she said, afterward to her sister. “I never knew people died like that; I don’t think I shall ever feel afraid about dying again. But oh, Sigrid!” and the child broke into a passion of tears, “we have got to go on living all alone—all alone!”

      Sigrid’s breast heaved. Alas! the poor child little knew all the troubles that were before them; as far as possible she must try to shield her from the knowledge.

      “We three must love each other very much, darling,” she said, folding her arms about Swanhild. “We must try and be everything to each other.”

      The words made her think of Frithiof, and with a sick longing for his presence she went downstairs again to speak to her uncle, and to arrange as to how the news should be sent to England. Herr Grönvold had never quite appreciated his brother-in-law, and this had always made a barrier between him and his nephew and nieces. He was the only relation, however, to whom Sigrid could turn, and she knew that he was her father’s executor, and must be consulted about all the arrangements. Had not she and Frithiof celebrated their twenty-first birthday just a week ago, Herr Grönvold would have been their guardian, and naturally he would still expect to have the chief voice in the family counsels.

      She found him in the sitting-room. He was still pale and agitated. She knew only too well that although he would not say a word against her dead father, yet in his heart he would always blame him, and that the family disgrace would be more keenly felt by him than by any one. The sight of him entirely checked her tears; she sat down and began to talk to him quite calmly. All her feeling of youth and helplessness was gone now—she felt old, strangely old; her voice sounded like the voice of some one else—it seemed to have grown cold and hard.

      “What must we do about telling Frithiof, uncle?” she said.

      “I have thought of that,” said Herr Grönvold. “It is impossible that he could be back in time for the funeral. This is Tuesday afternoon, and he could not catch this week’s steamer, which leaves Hull at nine o’clock to-night. The only thing is to telegraph the news to him, poor boy. His best chance now is to stay in England and try to find some opening there, for he has no chance here at all.”

      Sigrid caught her breath.

      “You mean that he had better not even come back?”

      “Indeed, I think England is the only hope for him,” said Herr Grönvold, perhaps hardly understanding what a terrible blow he was giving to his niece. “He is absolutely penniless, and over here the feeling will be so strong against the very name of Falck that he would never work his way up. I will gladly provide for you and Swanhild until he is able to make a home for you; but he must stay in England, there is no help for that.”

      She could not dispute the point any further; her uncle’s words had shown her only too plainly the true meaning of the word “bankrupt.” Why, the very chair she was sitting on was no longer her own! A chill passed over her as she glanced round the familiar room. On the writing-table she noticed her housekeeping books, and realized that there was no longer any money to pay them with; on the bookshelf stood the clock presented a year or two ago to her father by the clerks in his office—that too must be parted with; everything most sacred, most dear to her, everything associated with her happy childhood and youth must be swept away in the vain endeavor to satisfy the just claims of her father’s creditors. In a sort of dreadful dream she sat watching her uncle as he wrote the message to Frithiof, hesitating long over the wording