A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

most Bergen houses, it was built of wood. In the windows one could see flowers, and beyond them white muslin curtains, for æstheticism had not yet penetrated to Norway. The dark-tiled roof was outlined against a wooded hill rising immediately behind, with here and there gray rocks peeping through the summer green of the trees, while in front the chief windows looked on to a pretty terrace with carefully kept flower-beds, then down the wooded hill-side to the lake below—the Lungegaardsvand with purple and gray heights on the further shore, and on one side a break in the chain of mountains and a lovely stretch of open country. To the extreme left was the giant Ulriken, sometimes shining and glistening, sometimes frowning and dark, but always beautiful; while to the right you caught a glimpse of Bergen with its quaint cathedral tower, and away in the distance the fjord like a shining silver band in the sun.

      As Frithiof walked along the grassy terrace he could hear sounds of music floating from the house; some one was playing a most inspiriting waltz, and as soon as he had reached the open French window of his father’s study a quaint pair of dancers became visible. A slim little girl of ten years old, with very short petticoats, and very long golden hair braided into a pigtail, held by the front paws a fine Esquimaux dog, who seemed quite to enter into the fun and danced and capered most cleverly, obediently keeping his long pointed nose over his partner’s shoulder. The effect was so comical that Frithiof stood laughingly by to watch the performance for fully half a minute, then, unable to resist his own desire to dance, he unceremoniously called Lillo the dog away and whirled off little Swanhild in the rapid waltz which Norwegians delight in. The languid grace of a London ball-room would have had no charms for him; his dancing was full of fire and impetuosity, and Swanhild, too, danced very well; it had come to them both as naturally as breathing.

      “This is better than Lillo,” admitted the child. “Somehow he’s so dreadful heavy to get round. Have the English people come? What are they like?”

      “Oh, they’re middling,” said Frithiof, “all except the niece, and she is charming.”

      “Is she pretty?”

      “Prettier than any one you ever saw in your life.”

      “Not prettier than Sigrid?” said the little sister confidently.

      “Wait till you see,” said Frithiof. “She is a brunette and perfectly lovely. There now!” as the music ceased, “Sigrid has felt her left ear burning, and knows that we are speaking evil of her. Let us come to confess.”

      With his arms still round the child he entered the pretty bright-looking room to the right. Sigrid was still at the piano, but she had heard his voice and had turned round with eager expectation in her face. The brother and sister were very much alike; each had the same well-cut Greek features, but Frithiof’s face was broader and stronger, and you could tell at a glance that he was the more intellectual of the two. On the other hand, Sigrid possessed a delightful fund of quiet common-sense, and her judgment was seldom at fault, while, like most Norwegian girls, she had a most charmingly simple manner, and an unaffected light-heartedness which it did one good to see.

      “Well! what news?” she exclaimed. “Have they come all right? Are they nice?”

      “Nice is not the word! charming! beautiful! To-morrow you will see if I have spoken too strongly.”

      “He says she is even prettier than you, Sigrid,” said Swanhild mischievously. “Prettier than any one we ever saw!”

      “She? Which of them?”

      “Miss Blanche Morgan, the daughter of the head of the firm, you know.”

      “And the other one?”

      “I hardly know. I didn’t look at her much; the others all seemed to me much like ordinary English tourists. But she!—Well, you will see to-morrow.”

      “How I wish they were coming to-night! you make me quite curious. And father seems so excited about their coming. I have not seen him so much pleased about anything for a long time.”

      “Is he at home?”

      “No, he went for a walk; his head was bad again. That is the only thing that troubles me about him, his headaches seem to have become almost chronic this last year.”

      A shade came over her bright face, and Frithiof too, looked grave.

      “He works very much too hard,” he said, “but as soon as I come of age and am taken into partnership he will be more free to take a thorough rest. At present I might just as well be in Germany as far as work goes, for he will hardly let me do anything to help him.”

      “Here he comes, here he comes!” cried Swanhild, who had wandered away to the window, and with one accord they all ran out to meet the head of the house, Lillo bounding on in front and springing up at his master with a loving greeting.

      Herr Falck was a very pleasant-looking man of about fifty; he had the same well-chiseled features as Frithiof, the same broad forehead, clearly marked, level brows, and flexible lips, but his eyes had more of gray and less of blue in them, and a practiced observer would have detected in their keen glance an anxiety which could not wholly disguise itself. His hair and whiskers were iron-gray, and he was an inch or two shorter than his son. They all stood talking together at the door, the English visitors still forming the staple of conversation, and the anxiety giving place to eager hope in Herr Falck’s eyes as Frithiof once more sung the praises of Blanche Morgan.

      “Have they formed any plan for their tour?” he asked.

      “No; they mean to talk it over with you and get your advice. They all professed to have a horror of Baedeker, though even with your help I don’t think they will get far without him.”

      “It is certain that they will not want to stay very long in our Bergen,” said Herr Falck, “the English never do. What should you say now if you all took your summer outing at once and settled down at Ulvik or Balholm for a few weeks, then you would be able to see a little of our friends and could start them well on their tour.”

      “What a delightful plan, little father!” cried Sigrid; “only you must come too, or we shall none of us enjoy it.”

      “I would run over for the Sunday, perhaps; that would be as much as I could manage; but Frithiof will be there to take care of you. What should you want with a careworn old man like me, now that he is at home again?”

      “You fish for compliments, little father,” said Sigrid, slipping her arm within his and giving him one of those mute caresses which are so much more eloquent than words. “But, quite between ourselves, though Frithiof is all very well, I shant enjoy it a bit without you.”

      “Yes, yes, father dear,” said Swanhild, “indeed you must come, for Frithiof he will be just no good at all; he will be sure to dance always with the pretty Miss Morgan, and to row her about on the fjord all day, just as he did those pretty girls at Norheimsund and Faleide.”

      The innocent earnestness of the child’s tone made them all laugh, and Frithiof, vowing vengeance on her for her speech, chased her round and round the garden, their laughter floating back to Herr Falck and Sigrid as they entered the house.

      “The little minx!” said Herr Falck, “how innocently she said it, too! I don’t think our boy is such a desperate flirt though. As far as I remember, there was nothing more than a sort of boy and girl friendship at either place.”

      “Oh no,” said Sigrid, smiling. “Frithiof was too much of a school-boy, every one liked him and he liked every one. I don’t think he is the sort of man to fall in love easily.”

      “No; but when it does come it will be a serious affair. I very much wish to see him happily married.”

      “Oh, father! surely not yet. He is so young, we can’t spare him yet.”

      Herr Falck threw himself back in his arm-chair, and mused for a few minutes.

      “One need not necessarily lose him,” he replied, “and you know, Sigrid, I am a believer in early marriages—at least for my son; I will not say too much about you, little