A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

asked Blanche, as they rested half-way. “I should so like to go to a Norwegian service.”

      “There will be service at some church within reach,” said Frithiof; “but I do not much advise you to go; it will be very hot, and the place will be packed.”

      “Why? Are you such a religious people?”

      “The peasants are,” he replied. “And of course the women. Church-going and religion, that is for women; we men do not need that sort of thing.”

      She was a little startled by his matter-of-fact, unabashed tone.

      “What, are you an agnostic? an atheist?” she exclaimed.

      “No, no, not at all,” he said composedly. “I believe in a good Providence but with so much I am quite satisfied, you see. What does one need with more? To us men religion, church-going, is—is—how do you call it in English? I think you say ‘An awful bore,’ Is it not so?”

      The slang in foreign accent was irresistible. She was a little shocked, but she could not help laughing.

      “How you Norwegians speak out!” she exclaimed. “Many Englishmen feel that, but few would say it so plainly.”

      “So! I thought an Englishman was nothing if not candid. But for me I feel no shame. What more would one have than to make the most of life? That is my religion. I hear that in England there is a book to ask whether life is worth living? For me I can’t understand that sort of thing. It is a question that would never have occurred to me. Only to live is happiness enough. Life is such a very good thing. Do you not agree?”

      “Sometimes,” she said, rather wistfully.

      “Only sometimes? No, no, always—to the last breath!” cried Frithiof.

      “You say that because things are as you like; because you are happy,” said Blanche.

      “It is true, I am very happy,” he replied. “Who would not be happy walking with you?”

      Something in his manner frightened her a little. She went on breathlessly and incoherently.

      “You wouldn’t say that life is a very good thing if you were like our poor people in East London, for instance.”

      “Indeed, no,” he said gravely. “That must be a great blot on English life. Here in Norway we have no extremes. No one is very poor, and our richest men have only what would be counted in England a moderate income.”

      “Perhaps that is why you are such a happy people.”

      “Perhaps,” said Frithiof, but he felt little inclined to consider the problem of the distribution of wealth just then, and the talk drifted round once more to that absorbing personal talk which was much more familiar to them.

      At length the top of the mountain was reached, and a merry little picnic ensued. Frithiof was the life of the party, and there was much drinking of healths and clinking of glasses, and though the cold was intense every one seemed to enjoy it, and to make fun of any sort of discomfort.

      “Come!” said Sigrid to Cecil Boniface, “you and I must add a stone to the cairn. Let us drag up this great one and put it on the top together in memory of our friendship.”

      They stood laughing and panting under the shelter of the cairn when the stone was deposited, the merry voices of the rest of the party floating back to them.

      “Do you not think we are dreadful chatterers, we Norwegians?” said Sigrid.

      “I think you are delightful,” said Cecil simply.

      Something in her manner touched and pleased Sigrid. She had grown to like this quiet English girl. They were silent for some minutes, looking over that wonderful expanse of blue fjords and hoary mountains, flecked here and there on their somber heights by snow-drifts. Far down below them a row-boat could be seen on the water, looking scarcely bigger than the head of a pin: and as Cecil watched the lovely country steeped in the golden sunshine of that summer afternoon, thoughts of the Frithiof Saga came thronging through her mind, till it almost seemed to her that in another moment she should see the dragon ship the “Ellida,” winging her way over the smooth blue waters.

      Knut suggested before long that if they were to be home in time for supper it might be best to start at once, and the merry party broke up into little groups. Herr Falck was deep in conversation with Mr. Morgan, Cyril and Florence as usual kept to themselves, Knut piloted the American lady in advance of the others, while Roy Boniface joined his sister and Sigrid, pausing on the way for a little snow-balling in a great snowdrift just below the summit. Little Swanhild hesitated for a moment, longing to walk with Blanche, for whom she had formed the sort of adoring attachment with which children of her age often honor some grown-up girl; but she was laughingly carried off by some good-natured friends from Bergen, who divined her intentions, and once more Frithiof and Blanche were left alone.

      “And you must really go on Monday?” asked Frithiof, with a sigh.

      “Well,” she said, glancing up at him quickly, “I have been very troublesome to you, I’m sure—always needing help in climbing! You will be glad to get rid of me, though you are too polite to tell me so.”

      “How can you say such things?” he exclaimed, and again something in his manner alarmed her a little. “You know—you must know what these days have been to me.”

      The lovely color flooded her cheeks, and she spoke almost at random.

      “After all, I believe I should do better if I trusted to my alpenstock!” And laughingly she began to spring down the rough descent, a little proud of her own grace and agility, and a little glad to baffle and tease him for a few minutes.

      “Take care! take care!” cried Frithiof, hurrying after her. Then, with a stifled cry, he sprang forward to rescue her, for the alpenstock had slipped on a stone, and she was rolling down the steep incline. Even in the terrible moment itself he had time to think of two distinct dangers—she might strike her head against one of the bowlders, or, worse thought still, might be unchecked, and fall over that side of Munkeggen which was almost precipitous. How he managed it he never realized, but love seemed to lend him wings, and the next thing he knew was that he was kneeling on the grass only two or three feet from the sheer cliff-like side, with Blanche in his arms.

      “Are you hurt?” he questioned breathlessly.

      “No,” she replied, trembling with excitement. “Not hurt at all, only shaken and startled.”

      He lifted her a little further from the edge. For a minute she lay passively, then she looked up into his eyes.

      “How strong you are,” she said, “and how cleverly you caught me! Yet now that it is over you look quite haggard and white. I am really not hurt at all. It punished me well for thinking I could get on without you. You see I couldn’t!” and a lovely, tender smile dawned in her eyes.

      She sat up and took off her hat, smoothing back her disordered hair. A sort of terror seized Frithiof that in another minute she would propose going on, and, urged by this fear, he spoke rapidly and impetuously.

      “If only I might always serve you!” he cried. “Oh, Blanche, I love you! I love you! Will you not trust yourself to me?”

      Blanche had received already several offers of marriage; they had been couched in much better terms, but they had lacked the passionate ardor of Frithiof’s manner. All in a moment she was conquered; she could not even make a feint of resistance, but just put her hand in his.

      “I will always trust you,” she faltered.

      Then, as she felt his strong arm round her and his kisses on her cheek, there flashed through her mind a description she had once read of—

      “a strong man from the North,

      Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous gray.”

      It was a love worth having, she thought to herself; a love to be proud of!

      “But