Next morning she slept too long. She was awakened by singing and playing. First as in a dream and then consciously, through a rushing stream of memories, she heard JÖrgen Thiis. He was at the piano, singing in the freshness of the early morning, the windows flung open, his clear, jubilant tenor wafting festal tones up to her.

In a moment she was up and dressing, afraid lest she might be too late to go down with him to the steamer. The wider awake she became with the rapid motion, the more impetuously did her thoughts rush towards him and his joyful agitation. That heartfelt, soul and sense pervading gratitude and praise—she would fain enjoy it in his immediate neighbourhood. She longed to be uplifted and borne in triumph as his life's queen! Of her sovereign grace she had bestowed on him life's highest prize. He was rewarded now for his long sufferings!—without bargaining, without regard for established prejudices. She knew him now; she knew exactly how he would look, exactly in what manner he would make her the partaker of his happiness. Therefore her breast heaved high in expectation of the meeting—expectation of his gratitude and homage.

In her blue morning dress she passed through the little Dutch ante-room and stretched out her hand to open the door of the big drawing-room with the windows to the sea; but so excited was she that she had to pause to take breath—enjoying JÖrgen's triumph the while. He was so carried away with his own music that she was quite close to him before he noticed her. He looked up, radiant—rose slowly, silently, as to a festal rite. This impression he would do nothing to destroy. He opened his arms, drew her into his embrace, kissed her hair gently, stroked the cheek that lay bare—slowly, protectingly. He was trying to shield, to hide, to help her with manly tenderness to overcome the feeling of shame from which she must be suffering. His whole attitude was tender and reassuring.

"But we must hurry in to breakfast now," he whispered affectionately, kissing her beautiful hair again, and inhaling its fragrance. Then he passed his arm gently, yet in a controlling manner, round her waist. Near the door he said in a low tone: "You have slept well, since you come so late?" He opened the door with his disengaged hand, and, receiving no answer, looked sympathisingly at her. She was pale and confused. "My sweet one!" he whispered soothingly.

At breakfast there was no end to his consideration for her, especially when it became evident that she could not eat. But time was short; he had to attend to himself; so he could not talk much. Mary did not say a word. But it struck her that JÖrgen handled his knife and fork in a new, masterful manner, of a piece with that in which he now spoke to her and looked at her. He evidently desired to inspire her with courage—after what had happened last night. She could have taken her plate with what was on it and flung it in his face!

His triumphal song had been in his own honour! He had been hymning his own worthiness!

A decanter with wine stood on the table. JÖrgen poured out a large glass, drank it slowly, and rose with a dignified: "Excuse me!" adding in the doorway: "I must look if the boy has taken my portmanteau."

In a moment he was back again. "Time is almost up." He closed the door, and hurried across the room to Mary, who was now standing at the window. This time he drew her quickly into his arms and began to kiss.

"No more of that, please!" she said with all her old queenliness, and turned away from him. She walked proudly into the hall, put on her coat with the assistance of the maid who hastened to help, chose a hat, looked out to see the state of the weather, and then took her parasol. The maid opened the front door. Mary passed out quickly, JÖrgen following, mortally offended. He was unconscious of any transgression.

They walked on for a time silent. But Mary was in such a state of suppressed rage that when she at last remembered to put up her parasol, she almost broke it. JÖrgen saw this.

"Remember," she said—and it sounded as if she had suddenly acquired a new voice—"I don't care about letters. And I can't write letters."

"You don't wish me to write to you?" He had also a new voice.

She did not answer, nor did she look at him.

"But if anything should happen—?" said he.

"Well, of course then—! But you forget that you have Mrs. Dawes."

And as if this were not enough, she added: "I don't imagine that you, either, are a good letter-writer, JÖrgen. So there will be nothing lost." He could have struck her.

As ill luck would have it, the surly old Lapland dog was at the landing-place with his master. No sooner did he catch sight of JÖrgen than he began to bark. All his master's attempts to silence him were in vain.

Every one turned to look at the new-comers. JÖrgen had at once picked up a small stone, and Mary had asked him in a low voice not to throw it. The steamer was now lying to; it diverted the attention of all, including the dog. For this moment JÖrgen had been waiting; he flung the stone with all his might, and a loud howl arose. He immediately turned to Mary, swept off his hat with his best smile, and thanked her for the hospitality shown him.

For the sake of appearances she could not but remain on the pier until the steamer went; she was even obliged to wave her parasol once or twice. Smiling and triumphant, JÖrgen returned sweeping bows from the steamer's deck.

How furious she was! But he was hardly less so.

---

"He, who should have thrown himself in the dust before me, and kissed the hem of my dress!" This was Mary's feeling. She had had a dawning suspicion last night of a want of delicacy in her lover. He would not let her go. She had had to resort to artifice, and had been obliged to lock her door. But she had explained his behaviour to herself as an unfortunate result of those years of longing which had turned his passion into a morbid possession.

Now uncertainty was no longer possible! Only an "experienced hand" could behave like this. She had been deceived! The very best that was in her, fostered and guarded by her noblest instincts, had been led loathsomely astray.

With this thought she wrestled and strove all day long. She called herself betrayed, dishonoured. At first she thrust the blame away from herself. Then she took it all upon herself, and pronounced herself unworthy to live. She did nothing but make mistakes; she was her own betrayer! One hour she said to herself: "Violence was done me, although I gave myself to him voluntarily!" The next she said: "All this has its beginning farther back, and I cannot unravel it."

What a blessing that her own room remained undefiled! The one next it she would never enter again.

With JÖrgen she would have nothing more to do! But would he in these circumstances keep silence? She felt certain that he would. His faults did not lie in this direction—otherwise she, too, must have heard something. But that even one human being should exist who——! She wept with anger and impotence. It would break her spirit. It would weigh on her like an incubus—heaviest when she rose highest.

She would meet him! She would tell him what she had taken him for, and what he was—to whom she thought she was going that night and whom she found. He should not be able to boast! But to carry out this intention she must know something about his life. Whom dared she ask? who knew?

When she awoke next morning, her mind was clearer—clearer in the first place as to how she must proceed in acquiring information regarding JÖrgen. It must be gathered as opportunity offered, so that no one's attention should be attracted. It was also clear to her that the breach with him, and the meeting which was to prepare it, must be postponed—chiefly for the sake of the old people. But her second and much more important resolve was to restore the equilibrium of her own life, to escape from the unhealthy atmosphere which had been her undoing. This could be done in only one way; she must take up her work again, fit herself to do it better, and gain new courage by success.

Work and duty! She raised herself on her elbow, as if imitating the corresponding uplifting of her mind. The next moment she was out of bed, preparing to begin.

The 50,000 kroner which her father had given to Uncle Klaus, and of which she had found no record in his books—did they not indicate that he probably had money in America over and above that which had been in his brother's business? that the interest which he had not spent had been invested there? that 50,000 kroner of capital had lately been paid up and sent home?

Ever since JÖrgen had told her about these 50,000 kroner, the thought of them had been haunting her. Now she must examine her father's American correspondence; they must be mentioned in it. But no American letters could she find, until she opened a small box which was shoved under a book-shelf, and the key of which she found in her father's purse. She remembered that this box had accompanied them on their travels, but she had never known what it contained. In it lay the American correspondence and accounts. It seemed as if, ever since her mother's days, he had kept this American part of his fortune, and everything relating to it, separate from the rest. And a very considerable sum he must still own over there, even although the principal part, the million, was lost. Mary became quite excited. Her father had undoubtedly understood from the fatal letter that everything he possessed in America was lost; and she and the others had received the same impression.

She now went to her father's room, explained things carefully to him, and said that she intended to go to America at once to investigate the matter. He was startled, but soon recognised the necessity of the step, and agreed to it.

Mrs. Dawes was not so confiding. She felt that there was something wrong, and that Mary was seeking distraction. But Mary's manner in telling of her discovery and intention was quite determined. Therefore the old lady confined herself to a gentle reminder of the gales likely to be encountered at this season.

Three days later Mary, with an English-speaking maid, was on her way to America, confident, as she had assured her father, of finding some one among her many acquaintances capable of giving her the assistance she required. Everything happened as she had hoped, and in six weeks she was home again. It was fortunate that she had gone out when she did, for proceedings were on the point of being taken on the assumption that Anders Krog had been his brother's full partner, whereas his partnership was limited to the amount which he had invested in the business. This Mary was in a position to prove.

Her business success inspired her with courage. Why not go on? She had capital at her disposal now with which to commence operations. She felt very much inclined to try. And the timber trade too! Was she not as capable as any one of learning it? Was book-keeping by double-entry so very difficult? She set to work at once.

Anders Krog seemed to revive after his daughter's return. The certainty that the money which had not been in his brother's business was saved gave him the greatest satisfaction. Mary's future was his one thought.

Mrs. Dawes, on the contrary, became visibly worse. It seemed as if the once active, indefatigable woman had no strength left to draw upon. She did not even ask after JÖrgen; her correspondence she had quite given up.

Mary managed the property with the assistance of the overseer, and her father's money with the aid of a lawyer. She took lessons and studied. Twice a week she went to town.

The time passed thus until the beginning of November. Then Anders Krog received a letter from a near relation in Christiania, whose only child, a daughter, had just become engaged. He was particularly anxious that Mary should come and take part in the festivities to be held on this occasion. Several entertainments were to be given by both families concerned.

Mary was surprised at the pleasure with which the prospect suddenly filled her. The old Adam was not dead! She hummed cheerfully as she went about the house making her preparations. She was longing for new surroundings—and for new homage! It was as reparation she desired it; this she was obliged to confess to herself.

She had not been in Christiania many days before Anders received a letter proclaiming her praises in the strongest words in the language. It was not the engaged couple, but Mary, who attracted most attention at the balls; it was she who was distinguished and fÊted—the young couple themselves being amongst her most devoted admirers! Her unique style of beauty, her charm of manner, her accomplishments, her tact, had made an indelible impression upon them all. They must be allowed to keep her a little longer.

Anders Krog sent the letter in to Mrs. Dawes, with the request that it should be returned soon. He spent most of the day reading it.

Next morning Mary came home. She went upstairs quietly to her father's room. He was shocked with her look. She was ill, she said; and this was plainly visible. She was not pale, but grey; her eyes were heavy with sleep, her voice was faint. She embraced her father long and tenderly, but would neither look at his letter nor tell him about her visit. She must go to bed and rest, she told him, as soon as she had seen Mrs. Dawes.

She did not stay half a minute with Mrs. Dawes, whom she left terribly anxious.

She slept all day, ate a little at supper-time, and slept again all night.

When she got up she looked much as usual, and was active and interested in everything. Overseer, gardener, and housekeeper came with their reports, and she went her usual rounds. Then she made her father happy again by coming smiling into his room.

She had come to tell him that there was nothing now to prevent her marrying at once. They would be quite well enough off. Her father managed with great difficulty to say that he had been thinking the same himself. His eyes and the one hand said more, namely, that nothing would please him better.

But when she told Mrs. Dawes, and added that she thought of going at once to Stockholm to propose it (JÖrgen's name was not mentioned), Mrs. Dawes's usual perspicacity returned; she sat up in bed and began to weep bitterly. Then Mary's courage failed her; she threw herself on the bed and whispered: "It's only too true, Aunt Eva!" She wept as she had never wept in her life before. But as Mrs. Dawes's agitation was increased by this, she was obliged to raise her head and say: "Aunt Eva, dear, Father will hear us!" This subdued them a little. Then Mrs. Dawes told, through her tears, that this was her own story over again. Not until after her fiancÉ had induced her to go the same length did she discover what a despicable man he was.

"Then we were obliged to marry. You see now, child, what we women are; we never learn."

"Oh, if only you and Father had not insisted on bringing this man into my life!" moaned Mary. "My instinct warned me to keep him at a distance, but you deadened it." She added at once: "No, don't take it like that, Aunt Eva! I am not reproaching you and Father. Besides, there's no use in complaining now. There is only one thing to be done—to shut my eyes and take the plunge."

In this Mrs. Dawes entirely agreed with her. "Afterwards you will do as I did; when your reputation is saved, you will separate from him."

"No, that I shall not do. There will be something then that will bind us together. Good God! good God!" she moaned, clinging to her old friend and smothering her cry in the bed-clothes.

Mrs. Dawes sat helpless, holding her. "I don't understand this," she said.

Mary raised her head quickly: "Do you not understand? He did it on purpose to bind me. He knew me."

Then she threw herself across the bed again, miserable, despairing. Between her outbursts of weeping came the cry: "There is no way out of it! no way out of it!"

Mrs. Dawes had neither the strength nor the courage to seek for words to comfort such distress.

It took its free course, until the anger cooled. Mrs. Dawes could feel that another emotion was gradually taking the upper hand. Mary raised her head; in her eyes, red with weeping, was hatred.

"I thought that I was giving myself to a gentleman; I discovered that it was to a speculator." She rose slowly.

"Will you say that to him, child?"

"Most certainly not! Nothing whatever to that effect. I shall merely say that it is necessary we should marry."

---

Three days later a letter was brought in to JÖrgen Thiis at the Foreign Office. It was from Mary. "I am at the Grand Hotel, and expect you to meet me there, outside the entrance, at two o'clock punctually."

He understood at once what this implied, and hurried off, for it was now a quarter to two. It did not strike him until he was on his way downstairs that their meeting was to be "outside the entrance"!

She did not wish to be alone with him in her room.

This altered his intentions. He ran up to his rooms and released from imprisonment a little black poodle puppy, a valuable animal, which he was training. The middle of the road was filthy with slush and mud, and the dog was at once ordered to keep beside his master on the pavement, which was clean. After a few sprightly excursions he became obedient; he was afraid of JÖrgen's thin cane.

Mary's erect figure was distinguishable from a long distance. She stood with her back to them, looking in the direction of the palace. JÖrgen's heart beat violently; his courage was failing him.

Mary became aware of his approach by the dog's rushing up to her as to an old friend. She loved dogs; nothing but her constant change of abode had prevented her keeping one. And this was such a beautiful, healthy, well-kept animal, so entirely to her taste in every way, that she involuntarily bent down to take notice of him. As she did so she saw JÖrgen. She drew herself up again at once.

"Is this your dog?" she asked, as if they had parted half an hour ago.

"Yes," answered he, taking off his hat respectfully.

Then she bent down again and patted the dog: "What a beauty you are! a real beauty! No—keep down!" "Keep down!" came in a more peremptory tone from JÖrgen.

Mary straightened herself again. "Where shall we go?" she asked. "I have never been in Stockholm before."

"We may as well go straight on. If we take the turning yonder we shall come to John Ericson's monument."

"Yes, I should like to see that." They walked on.

"Come here!" called JÖrgen to the dog, indicating the spot with his stick. He was offended by Mary's not even having offered him her hand. The dog came dejectedly, but cheered up immediately, for Mary spoke to him and patted him again.

"I have been over in America," she said.

"Yes, I heard that."

"The 50,000 kroner of which you spoke were not in my father's books, which made me certain that he must keep a separate account of the money in America. This account I found. It showed me the necessity for going across and saving what could be saved. The main sum was, of course, hopelessly lost."

"What success had you?"

"I brought home with me the accumulated interest of all these years." "The money had been well invested?"

"Better, I believe, than it could have been in Europe."

Here followed a short intermezzo. The dog had been off the pavement, and now received a few cuts with the cane. This made Mary indignant.

"Dear me! the dog doesn't understand."

"Yes, he understands perfectly; but he has not learned to obey."

They walked on quickly. "What is your intention in telling me this?" asked JÖrgen.

"To show you that we can marry at once."

"How much is there?"

"About two hundred thousand."

"Dollars?"

"No, kroner. And the 50,000 besides."

"It is not enough."

"Along with the rest?"

"The 'rest' is hardly yielding anything at present. That you know."

Mary began to feel ill. He knew it by her voice when she said: "We have the timber to fall back upon."

"Which cannot be felled for three years; possibly not for four, or even five? That depends entirely on its growth." Mary knew that he was right. Why had she mentioned it? "But—ten to twelve thousand kroner a year...?"

"Is not enough in our position."

Another intermezzo. There was no pavement here. They had come to a large, open space, thick with mud. Both had forgotten the dog. A fat, dirty ship-dog, also of the poodle tribe, had come on shore with some sailors, who were sauntering along in the same direction as Mary and JÖrgen. With this welcome playfellow JÖrgen's dog had joined company. JÖrgen had the greatest trouble in inducing him to come back—dirty as he already was. As soon as Mary called too, he came boldly and joyfully. But a stroke with the cane awaited him, and called forth a howl.

"It is strange," said Mary, "that you cannot treat a nice dog kindly!" She was thinking of his cruelty to their neighbour's old Lapland dog.

JÖrgen did not answer. But as soon as he felt sure that the dog was following meekly, he said: "Does Uncle Klaus know anything about this money?"

"I do not believe that any one knows about it except ourselves. Why do you ask?"

"Because it will be our best plan to speak to Uncle Klaus." Mary stood still, astonished. "To Uncle Klaus?"

JÖrgen also stood still. They looked at each other now.

"It will be to our interest," continued JÖrgen.

"With Uncle Klaus——?" Mary stared. She did not understand him.

"For the sake of the family's honour he will do a great deal," said JÖrgen, giving her a quick side-glance as he moved on.

She had turned ghastly white, but she followed. "Must we confide in Uncle Klaus?" she whispered behind him. A lower depth of humiliation there could not be.

"Yes, we'll do so!" he answered encouragingly, almost gaily. "Now he will not say 'No'!"

Had this, too, entered into his calculations?

He went closer to her. "If Uncle Klaus knows nothing about the American money, we shall get more—do you see?"

How well he had thought it all out! In spite of her disgust, Mary was impressed. JÖrgen was a cleverer man than she had taken him for. Once he had the opportunity to develop all his gifts, he would surprise many besides herself.

She walked along, shrinking into herself like a leaf in too dry heat. "You will manage this with Uncle Klaus yourself?"

"I shall go back with you now, as you may suppose. You need not have come. You had only to let me know."

Her head was bent and she was trembling. His superiority robbed her of her strength and courage; his words sickened her. As on a previous occasion, one foot refused to plant itself in front of the other; she could follow no farther.

Then she heard JÖrgen call: "Come here, you little devil!" The dog again! His dirty scamp of a playfellow had once more tempted him from the path of duty.

There was something peculiar about JÖrgen's voice when it commanded—it was subdued and sharp at the same time. The dog recognised it, but only looked round, irresolute. Being endowed with a happy frivolity of disposition, he rushed again merrily up to his comrade and went on with the game as if nothing had been said.

Mary stood learning a lesson. It was just underneath John Ericson's statue that this happened. She looked up at the statue, looked into John Ericson's kind, thoughtful eyes, until tears filled her own. She was utterly miserable. JÖrgen was engrossed with the dog. The animal's education was conducted on the principle that he must never be allowed to have his own will when it conflicted with his master's. "Come here, you little rogue," said JÖrgen ingratiatingly. The dog was so surprised that he stopped in the middle of his game. "Good dog! come along!" He made one or two joyful bounds in JÖrgen's direction; he remembered the good times they had had together—perhaps such a time awaited him now. But, whatever the reason, doubt seized him—he turned back and was soon between his dirty friend's paws again, both of them sprawling in the mud.

The passers-by stopped, amused by the animal's disobedience. This annoyed JÖrgen. Mary knew it, and made an attempt to save the dog. Standing behind JÖrgen, she said softly in French: "It is not fair first to coax and then to strike." Her words only made him more obstinate. "This is a matter you don't understand," he answered, also in French, and continued coaxing.

With the short-sighted trustfulness common to sweet-tempered puppies, the dog stopped in his game and looked at JÖrgen. JÖrgen, with his stick behind his back, advanced persuasively. He was furious at the laughter of the onlookers, but muffled his rage in soft words. "Come on, old fellow, come on!"

"Don't believe him!" shouted an English sailor. But it was too late. JÖrgen had hold of one of the long ears. The dog howled; JÖrgen must have pinched hard. Mary called in French: "Don't beat him!" JÖrgen struck—not hard; but the terrified puppy yelled piercingly. He struck again—not hard this time either; it was done chiefly to annoy them all. The dog howled so pitifully that Mary could not bear to look in that direction. Gazing into John Ericson's good, kind eyes, she said: "These blows have separated you and me, JÖrgen!"

Instantaneously he let the dog go and stood up. He saw her eyes flame; her cheeks were white; she held herself erect and faced him—above her John Ericson's head.

A moment later, and she had turned her back on him and was walking quickly away, with light, glad steps—the dog following.

The onlookers laughed, the English sailors derisively; JÖrgen started in pursuit.

But when Mary saw that the dog was following her and not him, and that the creature's eyes sought hers to learn what she intended to do, the fear she had felt before turned into wild exhilaration. Such revulsions of feeling were not uncommon with her. She clapped her hands and ran, and the dog sprang along at her side, barking. The spell was broken, the disgrace was cast from her! Farewell to JÖrgen and all his ways!

"That's what we are saying, my little rescuer, eh?" The dog barked.

She looked round to see JÖrgen. He dared not hurry, for the sake of appearances.

"But we two dare, don't we?" Again she clapped her hands and ran, and the dog ran with her, barking.

Then she slackened her pace, and played with him and talked to him; JÖrgen was so far behind. "You ought to be called 'liberator'; but that is too long a name for a little black puppy. You shall be called John—be named after him who looked at me and gave me courage." Off she and the dog ran again. "You follow me and not him! Well done, well done! That is what he whom you are called after did. He would have nothing to do with the slave-drivers; his friends were those who set free!"

Now they were round the corner. JÖrgen was not visible. When he came to the hotel, he was told, though he had seen Mary go in, that she was not at home. He said that she had his dog. The waiter professed ignorance. There was nothing for it but to go. He had lost both her and the dog.

Up in her room Mary asked the dog: "Will you be mine? Will you go with me, little black John?" She clapped her hands to make him bark his joyful: Yes. The question of ownership was settled thus. A letter which came from JÖrgen, probably on this subject, she burned unread.

She expected him to appear at the station, at the time when the train for Norway left, to claim his property. She drove boldly up with her dog at her side, washed, combed, perfumed. JÖrgen was not there.

---

Mary slept all night with the dog at her feet, on her travelling rug.

But with morning came reflection. Now she was alone, alone with the responsibility.

Hitherto she had been forcing herself into the one narrow way of escape—to marry JÖrgen at once, bear her child abroad, and after that—endure as long as she could.

But to marry the man she loathed, merely in order to save her good name—how inconceivable such a step now seemed to her! She had tried to take it, because she knew what those around her thought on such subjects, and because she occupied a peculiar position; upon festal garments a stain was unendurable.

But now she said "For shame!" at the thought of it—said it aloud. And the dog instantly looking up, she added: "Yes, John, it was 'to the dogs' I was going when I set off on this journey!"

But what was she to do now?

She knew what could be done. But two besides herself would be in that secret—JÖrgen and another. This in itself was prohibitive. She could never again hold up her head proudly and independently—and to be able to do so was a necessity to her.

Well, what then?

As long as her journey and what it entailed had seemed to her to be imperative, for honour's sake inevitable, the idea of the last, the very last refuge had not suggested itself seriously.

Now it faced her in sad earnest!

She looked mournfully into the dog's honest eyes, as if she were searching for a way of escape from this too. She read in them the most unmixed happiness and devotion. Burying her face in his curls, she wept. She was so young still, she did not want to die.

For the first time she wept for herself, was sorry for herself. It did not seem to her that she had done anything to deserve this. Nor could she account to herself for the manner in which it had all come about.

The dog understood that she was unhappy. He licked her hands, looked up into her face, and whined to be allowed to jump up and comfort her.

She lifted him up and bent over him. Imagining that she meant to play with him, he began to snap at her hands. She let him have his way, and the two were soon engaged in a merry, babyish game, which lasted a long time, because John refused to be satisfied; every time she stopped, he began again.

Then she talked to him. "Little black John, you remind me of the negroes. You remind me that your namesake ransomed negroes from slavery. You have saved me from being enslaved. But it is a sorry deliverance, I can tell you, if I am not to have the right to live as well as you. Don't you think so too?" Then she began to cry again.

In Christiania she drove from one station to the other wearing a thick veil, the dog beside her on the seat. She saw none of her acquaintances. If they knew——!

Oh, that condemned and executed crow, which JÖrgen wanted to pick up and she fled from—she had no idea how well she had seen it, seen the torn neck, the hacked body, the empty eye-sockets! The red wounds gaped at her; she could not get them out of her thoughts during this terrible drive.

It was winter now. She had not seen winter for many years. Dying, withered vegetation she had seen, but not winter's transforming power, not desolation decked in the fairest, purest white, with capricious variations where the landscape was wooded. The fjord was not yet ice-covered; steel-grey, defiant, hard, the sea came rolling up from every direction, like a hydra-headed monster challenging to combat.

Her imagination had been excited by the drive through the town; now the powers of nature took possession of it. All the more intensely did she feel her impotence. Could she accept any challenge to combat? Would she ever know the period of transformation? For her there was no course open but to die.

Whilst she was wrestling with these thoughts she suddenly saw her father's face. How could she live without telling him what was impending? And never, never would she be able to tell him! She could not even let him know that she had broken off her engagement. This alone would be more than he could bear.

What if, instead of speaking, she were to disappear? Good God! that would kill him at once.

During the rest of the journey she felt no more fear of others, none whatever for herself—it was all for him, for him alone!

She arrived in such an exhausted and miserable condition that she began to cry when she saw the house. There can have been few sadder walks than hers up to it. Even the dog's joyful antics when he reached firm ground could not distract her. She went straight to her own room to wash and change her dress, requesting that her father and Mrs. Dawes should be told of her arrival. Little Nanna went with her, to help her. The child played with the dog whenever she had an unoccupied moment; this annoyed Mary, but she said nothing.

She looked utterly worn-out, and it was only too evident that she had wept. But perhaps this was fortunate. Her father would understand at once that all was not well. If he were only able to bear it! She would tell him that she had had a long, fatiguing journey, and that JÖrgen did not consider the means at their disposal sufficient for people in their position to marry upon. They must wait and see what Uncle Klaus would do.

If she cried—and she was sure to cry, so tired and heart-broken was she—it would prepare him for what was to follow. Oh, if he were only able to bear it!

But what else could she do? If she did not go to him at once he would suspect mischief, and feel alarmed, and that would be quite as bad for him.

She trembled as she stood at his door. Not only from anxiety for him—no, also because she must not throw herself down beside him, tell him everything, and weep till she could weep no more. How dreadful it all was!

But life is sometimes merciful!

Anders had not been told of his daughter's arrival, because he was asleep. The nurse had waited in the passage to let Mary know this when she came out of her room. Why did the woman not knock at the door and tell her? Simply because it was not natural to her to act thus. However, when Mary did come out, she was no longer in the passage, but half way downstairs. One of the servants was carrying up the invalid's dinner. The nurse, distressed at being unable to do this herself as usual, had thought that she would at least take it from her on the stairs. Whilst she was doing this, Mary opened the door of her father's room. She stood still in the doorway, because the nurse, who had hastened up again, was whispering: "He is asleep, Miss Krog."

But the dog, understanding nothing, was in the room already, already had his paws on the edge of the bed and his face close to the face of the sick man, who was awaking—who awoke, with this black apparition staring into his eyes. The eyes opened wide with terror, gazed round the room, and met Mary's. She stood in the doorway, horror-struck, pale as death. Her father raised his head towards her; then the eyes became fixed and a far-away look came into them. The head sank back.

"He is dying!" cried the nurse behind Mary, setting down the tray and rushing forwards.

Mary would not believe it at first; but when she understood that it was true, she threw herself upon him with a heartrending scream. It was answered by one from Mrs. Dawes in the next room. The servants who hurried there found her lying unconscious. She recovered sufficiently to be able to stammer some unintelligible English words. The doctor said: "It will soon be all over with her too." Anders Krog was dead. Mary clung to her reason as if she were grasping it with her hands. She must not, must not give way—must not scream, must not think. She had not killed him! She must listen to and remember what the others said, must give her consent to what they were proposing, which was to send for her father's sister. When she witnessed that sister's grief, she felt that she must not give way to her own. She must not, must not! "Help me, help me," she cried, "that I may not go mad!" And, turning to the doctor, she said: "I did not kill him, did I?"

The doctor ordered her to bed, prescribed cold compresses, and remained beside her. He, too, impressed on her the necessity of self-control.

Not till little Nanna brought the dog to her next morning, and the animal insisted on being taken into her arms, was she able to shed tears.

During the course of the day she improved a little. Her grief was alleviated by the heartfelt sympathy, often expressed in the most moving terms, which was conveyed to her by the numberless telegrams that arrived in town and were telephoned from there. All this sympathy for herself, admiration for her father, and intense desire to comfort and strengthen her, helped her greatly. From the incautious manner in which one of these telegrams was transmitted she learned that Mrs. Dawes, too, was dead. They had not dared to tell her. But the great and general sympathy helped her to bear this also. Now she understood how it was so great and general. Every one but herself knew that she had lost both, that she was alone in the world.

The message which touched her most came from Paris, and was as follows: "My beloved Mary,—Can it comfort you in your great sorrow to know that there is a resting-place here for you, and that I am at your service—to travel with you, to come to you, to do whatever you wish!—Yours unalterably, Alice."

She knew who had sent Alice intimation.

JÖrgen, too, telegraphed. "If I could be of the slightest service or comfort to you I would come at once. I am broken-hearted."

The same touching, reverential sympathy was shown on the occasion of the funeral, which was hastened on Mary's account, and took place three days after the deaths. Amongst the countless wreaths, the most beautiful of all was Alice's. It was taken up to Mary—she wished to see it. The whole house was fragrant with flowers on that winter day, their sweet breath a message of love to those who slept there.

Mary did not go downstairs; she refused to see the coffins, or the flowers, or any of the preparations that had been made for the entertainment of friends who came from a distance.

More people came than the house could hold, and at the chapel there was a still larger gathering.

The clergyman asked if he might go upstairs and see Miss Krog. Mary sent him her best thanks, but declined the visit.

Immediately afterwards little Nanna came to ask if she would see Uncle Klaus. The old man had sent her a very touching telegram, in which he asked if he could not be of service to her in any way. And his wreath was so magnificent that, after hearing the servants' description of it, Mary had made them bring it, too, for her to look at.

She now answered: Yes. And in came the tall man, in deep mourning, gasping as if he had difficulty in breathing. No sooner did he see Mary standing by the bed, a figure of ivory draped in black, than he sank on to the first chair he could reach, and burst into loud weeping. The sound resembled what is heard when the mainspring of a large clock breaks, and the whole machinery unreels itself. It was the weeping of a man who had not wept since he was a child—a sound alarmed at itself. He did not look up.

But he had an errand, so much Mary understood. He tried twice to speak, but the attempt only increased the violence of the weeping fit. Then, motioning despairingly, he rose and left the room. He did not shut the door, and she heard him sobbing as he went along the passage and downstairs, to go straight home.

Mary was deeply touched. She knew that her father had been the old man's best, perhaps his only friend. But she understood that it was not for him alone the tears had been shed; they told also of sympathy with her, and of remorse. Had it not been so, Uncle Klaus would have stayed beside the coffin.

The sweet-toned chapel bell began to toll. The dog, which had been kept prisoner in Mary's room all day, and was very restless, rushed to the window towards the sea, and put his fore-paws up on the sill, to look out. Mary followed him.

At that moment Uncle Klaus drove off. The singing of a psalm began in the rooms below, and the funeral procession issued from the house. The coffins were carried by the peasants from the neighbouring farms. When the first came in sight, Mary fell on her knees and wept as if her heart would break. She saw no more.

She flung herself across the bed. The strokes of the bell seemed to cut into her flesh; she imagined that she felt the stripes they raised. Her mind became more and more confused. She was certain now that her father, when he caught sight of her in the doorway, had guessed the truth, and that this had killed him. Mrs. Dawes had followed him, as she always did. Her love for Anders Krog was the one great love of her life. They were both here now. And Mary's mother, too, was in the room, in a long white robe. "You are cold, child!" she said, and took her into her arms—for Mary had become a child again, a little innocent child. She fell asleep.

When she awoke and heard no sound, outside the house or in, she folded her hands and said, half aloud: "This was best for us, for all three. We have been mercifully dealt with."

She looked round for the dog; she craved for sympathy. But some one must have taken him away whilst she was asleep.

No more was needed to make the tears flow again. Welling forth from the inexhaustible fountain of grief within, they poured down her cheeks and over the hands with which she was supporting her heavy head.

"Now I can begin to think of myself again. I am alone now."

---