A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

with its painted floor and groups of flowers, and its pink-tinted walls, about which the green ivy wreathed itself picturesquely, now twining itself round some mirror or picture-frame, now forming a sort of informal frieze round the whole room, its roots so cleverly hidden away in sheltered corners or on unobtrusive brackets that the growth had all the fascination of mystery. The presiding genius of the place, and the very center of all that charmed, stood by one of the windows, the light falling on her golden hair. She had taken off her hat and was flicking the rain-drops from it with her handkerchief when Frithiof introduced the two Bonifaces, and Roy, who found his novel experience a little embarrassing, was speedily set at ease by her delightful naturalness and frank courtesy.

      Her bow and smile were grace itself, and she seemed to take the whole proceeding entirely as a matter of course; one might have supposed that she was in the habit of sheltering wet tourists every day of her life.

      “I am so glad my brother found you,” she exclaimed. “You would have been wet through had you walked on to Bergen. Swanhild, run and fetch a duster; oh, you have brought one already, that’s a good child. Now let me wipe your dress,” she added, turning to Cecil.

      “Where has every one disappeared to?” asked Frithiof.

      “Father has walked on to Holdt’s Hotel with the Morgans,” said Swanhild. “They would not wait, though we tried to persuade them to. Father is going to talk over their route with them.”

      Cecil saw a momentary look of annoyance on his face; but the next minute he was talking as pleasantly as possible to Roy, and before long the question of routes was being discussed, and as fast as Frithiof suggested one place, Sigrid and Swanhild mentioned others which must on no account be missed.

      “And you can really only spare a month for it all?” asked Sigrid. “Then I should give up going to Christiania or Trondhjem if I were you. They will not interest you half as much as this southwest coast.”

      “But, Sigrid, it is impossible to leave out Kongswold and Dombaas. For you are a botanist, are you not?” said Frithiof, turning to the Englishman, “and those places are perfection for flowers.”

      “Yes? Then you must certainly go there,” said Sigrid. “Kongswold is a dear little place up on the Dovrefjeld. Yet if you were not botanists I should say you ought to see instead either the Vöringsfos or the Skjaeggedalsfos, they are our two finest waterfalls.”

      “The Skedaddle-fos, as the Americans call it,” put in Frithiof.

      “You have a great many American tourists, I suppose,” said Roy.

      “Oh, yes, a great many, and we like them very well, though not as we like the English. To the English we feel very much akin.”

      “And you speak our language so well!” said Cecil, to whom the discovery had been a surprise and a relief.

      “You see we Norwegians think a great deal of education. Our schools are very good; we are all taught to speak German and English. French, which with you comes first, does it not? stands third with us.”

      “Tell me about your schools,” said Cecil. “Are they like ours, I wonder?”

      “We begin at six years old to go to the middle school—they say it is much like your English high schools; both my brother and I went to the middle schools here at Bergen. Then when we were sixteen we went to Christiania, he to the Handelsgymnasium, and I to Miss Bauer’s school, for two years. My little sister is now at the middle school here; she goes every day, but just now it is holiday time.”

      “And in holidays,” said Swanhild, whose English was much less fluent and ready, “we go away. We perhaps go to-morrow to Balholm.”

      “Perhaps we shall meet you again there,” said Sigrid. “Oh, do come there; it is such a lovely place.”

      Then followed a discussion about flowers, in which Sigrid was also interested, and presently Herr Falck returned, and added another picture of charming hospitality to the group that would always remain in the minds of the English travelers; and then there was afternoon tea, which proved a great bond of union and more discussion of English and Norwegian customs, and much laughter and merriment and light-heartedness.

      When at length the rain ceased and Roy and Cecil were allowed to leave for Bergen, they felt as if the kindly Norwegians were old friends.

      “Shall you be very much disappointed if we give up the Skedaddle-fos?” asked Roy. “It seems to me that a water-fall is a water-fall all the world over, but that we are not likely to meet everywhere with a family like that.”

      “Oh, by all means give it up,” said Cecil gayly. “I would far rather have a few quiet days at Balholm. I detest toiling after the things every one expects you to see. Besides, we can always be sure of finding the Skjaeggedalsfos in Norway, but we can’t tell what may happen to these delightful people.”

CHAPTER III.

       Table of Contents

      Balholm, the loveliest of all the places on the Sogne Fjord, is perhaps the quietest place on earth. There is a hotel, kept by two most delightful Norwegian brothers; there is a bathing-house, a minute landing-stage, and a sprinkling of little wooden cottages with red-tiled roofs. The only approach is by water; no dusty high-road is to be found, no carts and carriages rumble past; if you want rest and quiet, you have only to seek it on the mountains or by the shore; if you want amusement, you have only to join the merry Norwegians in the salon, who are always ready to sing or to play, to dance or to talk, or, if weather-bound, to play games with the zest and animation of children. Even so limp a specimen of humanity as Cyril Morgan found that, after all, existence in this primitive region had its charms, while Blanche said, quite truthfully, that she had never enjoyed herself so much in her life. There was to her a charming piquancy about both place and people; and although she was well accustomed to love and admiration, she found that Frithiof was altogether unlike the men she had hitherto met in society; there was about him something strangely fresh—he seemed to harmonize well with the place, and he made all the other men of whom she could think seem ordinary and prosaic. As for Frithiof he made no secret of his love for her, it was apparent to all the world—to the light-hearted Norwegians, who looked on approvingly; to Cyril Morgan, who wondered what on earth Blanche could see in such an unsophisticated boy; to Mr. Morgan, who, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, remarked that there was no help for it—it was Blanche’s way; to Roy Boniface, who thought the two were well matched, and gave them his good wishes; and to Cecil, who, as she watched the two a little wistfully, said in her secret heart what could on no account have been said to any living being, “I hope, oh, I hope she cares for him enough!”

      One morning, a little tired with the previous day’s excursion to the Suphelle Brae, they idled away the sunny hours on the fjord, Frithiof rowing, Swanhild lying at full length in the bow with Lillo mounting guard over her, and Blanche, Sigrid, and Cecil in the stern.

      “You have been all this time at Balholm and yet have not seen King Bele’s grave!” Frithiof had exclaimed in answer to Blanche’s inquiry. “Look, here it is, just a green mound by that tree.”

      “Isn’t it odd,” said Sigrid dreamily, “to think that we are just in the very place where the Frithiof Saga was really lived?”

      “But I thought it was only a legend,” said Cecil.

      “Oh, no,” said Frithiof, “the Sagas are not legends, but true stories handed down by word of mouth.”

      “Then I wish you would hand down your saga to us by word of mouth,” said Blanche, raising her sweet eyes to his. “I shall never take the trouble to read it for myself in some dry, tiresome book. Tell us the story of Frithiof now as we drift along in the boat with his old home Framnaes in sight.”

      “I do not think I can tell it really well,” he said: “but I can just give you the outline of it:

      “Frithiof was the only son of a wealthy