A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

that her uncle would pay for it, and the knowledge kept her lips sealed. It was absurd to long so to send love and sympathy at the rate of thirty öre a word! Why, in the whole world she had not so much as a ten-öre piece! Her personal possessions might, perhaps, legally belong to her, but she knew that there was something within her which would utterly prevent her being able to consider them her own. Everything must go toward those who would suffer from her father’s failure; and Frithiof would feel just as she did about the matter, of that she was certain.

      “There, poor fellow,” said Herr Grönvold, “that will give him just the facts of the case: and you must write to him, Sigrid, and I, too, will write by the next mail.”

      “I am afraid he cannot get a letter till next Monday,” said Sigrid.

      “No, there is no help for that,” said Herr Grönvold. “I shall do all that can be done with regard to the business; that he will know quite well, and his return later on would be a mere waste of time and money. He must seek work in London without delay, and I have told him so. Do you think this is clear?”

      He handed her the message he had written, and she read it through, though each word was like a stab.

      “Quite clear,” she said, returning it to him.

      Her voice was so tired and worn that it attracted his notice for the first time.

      “My dear,” he said kindly, “it has been a terrible day for you; you had better go to bed and rest. Leave everything to me. I promise you all shall be attended to.”

      “You are very kind,” she said, yet with all the time a terrible craving for something more than this sort of kindness, for something which was perhaps beyond Herr Grönvold’s power to give.

      “Would you like your aunt or one of your cousins to spend the night here?” he asked.

      “No,” she said; “I am better alone. They will come to-morrow. I—I will rest now.”

      “Very well. Good-by, then, my dear. I will send off the telegram at once.”

      She heard the door close behind him with a sense of relief, yet before many minutes had passed, the dreadful quiet of the house seemed almost more than she could endure.

      “Oh, Frithiof, Frithiof! why did you ever go to England?” she moaned.

      And as she sat crouched together in one of the deep easy-chairs, it seemed to her that the physical faintness, the feeling that everything was sliding away from her, was but the shadow of the bitter reality. She was roused by the opening of the door. Her old nurse stole in.

      “See here, Sigrid,” said the old woman. “The pastor has come. You will see him in here?”

      “I don’t think I can,” she said wearily.

      “He is in the dining-room talking to Swanhild,” said the nurse: “you had better just see him a minute.”

      But still Sigrid did not stir. It was only when little Swanhild stole in, with her wistful, tear-stained face, that she even tried to rouse herself.

      “Sigrid,” said the child, “Herr Askevold has been out all day with some one who was dying; he is very tired and has had no dinner; he says if he may he will have supper with us.”

      Sigrid at once started to her feet; her mind was for the moment diverted from her own troubles; it was the thought of the dear old pastor, tired and hungry, yet coming to them, nevertheless, which touched her heart. Other friends might perhaps forsake them in their trouble and disgrace, but not Herr Askevold. Later on, when she thought it over, she knew that it was for the sake of inducing them to eat, and for the sake of helping them through that terrible first meal without their father, that he had come in just then. She only felt the relief of his presence at the time, was only conscious that she was less desolate because the old white-haired man, who had baptized her as a baby and confirmed her as a girl, was sitting with them at the supper-table. His few words of sympathy as he greeted her had been the first words of comfort which had reached her heart, and now, as he cut the bread and helped the fish, there was something in the very smallness and fineness of his consideration and care for them which filled her with far more gratitude than Herr Grönvold’s offer of a home. They did not talk very much during the meal, but little Swanhild ceased to wonder whether it was wrong to feel so hungry on such a day, and, no longer ashamed of her appetite, went on naturally and composedly with her supper; while Sigrid, with her strong Norwegian sense of hospitality, ate for her guest’s sake, and in thinking of his wants was roused from her state of blank hopelessness.

      Afterward she took him to her father’s room, her tears stealing down quietly as she looked once more on the calm, peaceful face that would never again bear the look of strained anxiety which had of late grown so familiar to her.

      And Herr Askevold knelt by the bedside and prayed. She could never quite remember in after-days what it was that he said, perhaps she never very clearly took in the actual words; but something, either in his tone or manner, brought to her the sense of a presence altogether above all the changes that had been or ever could be. This new consciousness seemed to fill her with strength, and a great tenderness for Swanhild came to her heart; she wondered how it was she could ever have fancied that all had been taken from her.

      As they rose from their knees and the old pastor took her hand in his to wish her good-by, he glanced a little anxiously into her eyes. But something he saw there comforted him.

      “God bless you, my child,” he said.

      And again as they opened the front door to him and he stepped out into the dark wintry night, he looked back, and said:

      “God comfort you.”

      Sigrid stood on the threshold, behind her the lighted hall, before her the starless gloom of the outer world, her arm was round little Swanhild, and as she bade him good-night, she smiled, one of those brave, patient smiles that are sadder than tears.

      “The light behind her, and the dark before,” said the old pastor to himself as he walked home wearily enough. “It is like her life, poor child. And yet I am somehow not much afraid for her. It is for Frithiof I am afraid.”

CHAPTER IX.

       Table of Contents

      When Frithiof found that instead of addressing a stranger at Hyde Park Corner, he had actually spoken to Roy Boniface, his first feeling had been of mere blank astonishment. Then he vehemently wished himself alone once more, and cursed the fate which had first brought him into contact with the little child by the Serpentine, and which had now actually thrown him into the arms of a being who would talk and expect to be talked to. Yet this feeling also passed; for as he looked down the unfamiliar roads, and felt once more the desolateness of a foreigner in a strange country, he was obliged to own that it was pleasant to him to hear Roy’s well-known voice, and to feel that there was in London a being who took some sort of interest in his affairs.

      “I wish I had seen you a minute or two sooner; my mother and my sister were in that carriage,” said Roy, “and they would have liked to meet you. You must come and see us some day, or are you quite too busy to spare time for such an out-of-the-way place as Brixton?”

      “Thank you. My plans are very uncertain,” said Frithiof. “I shall probably only be over here for a few days.”

      “Have you come across the Morgans?” asked Roy, “or any of our other companions at Balholm?”

      In his heart he felt sure that the young Norwegian’s visit was connected with Blanche Morgan, for their mutual liking had been common property at Balholm, and even the semiengagement was shrewdly guessed at by many of the other tourists.

      Frithiof knew this, and the question was like a sword-thrust to him. Had it not been so nearly dark Roy could hardly have failed to notice his change of color and expression. But he had great self-control, and his voice was quite steady, though a little cold and monotonous in tone, as