CHAPTER I.

"Maccaroni of my native land!" said Signor Luigi one day whilst sitting in Katharine's private room at the organ-factory—"Maccaroni of my native land! And so the Signorina have become a real business-personage, helping 'brother' to build the best organs in the world. But the Signorina must not work too hard. She must not depart the roses from her cheeks. And she must eat her lunch lentissimo largissimo, as now. Ha, this coffee is very good. And the rolls and butter is adorable."

Katharine laughed, and poured out another cup of coffee for the merry little Italian.

"No," he repeated, "she must not depart the adorable roses from her cheeks."

"Oh, I am not too tired," Katharine said. "Of course it was a little trying at first to get accustomed to routine work. But after a time it goes swimmingly, Signor Luigi; and I assure you I should be quite lost now if I did not come down to the factory every day. Let me see. I have been at it three months. You all said I should give it up after three days."

"We all thought the Signorina were made to have all the time to herself and to command her faithful servants," the little violoncellist answered gallantly.

"But I can still command my faithful servants, I suppose?" Katharine asked with a smile.

"Always, always!" he replied, waving his spoon in the air.

"You see," Katharine continued, nodding at him approvingly, "I was bent on filling up my life with something which was worth doing. Even before I left England, I had got tired of the ordinary leisured woman's life. And when I came home again and went amongst my friends and acquaintances, I saw it was going to be impossible to me to take such a life up once more and even pretend to myself that I was enjoying it. The whole thing bored me, wearied me. But here I am not bored. Moreover, I am delighted with myself, and proud to find myself developing all sorts of unexpected abilities!"

"I have always said that the Signorina have the abilities of all the cleverest and beautifullest personages in all the centuries and all the countries," said Signor Luigi. "Light of mine eyeballs, light of mine eyeballs! I have always said she could build organs for 'brother,' play on the trombone, on the adorable drums, do anything and everything—except one thing."

"And what is that?" Katharine said.

"The Signorina could not leave off being her adorable self although she have become the busy, busy business-personage," he answered, with a nourish of the coffee-cup. "But now I go. I dare not stay one leetle minute longer. I have not the wish to be deported like the Pomeranian dog. Ah, he have gone away with the other grand things of 'brother's' grand house. But 'brother' looks happier. And every month 'brother' will be happier. Not so many illustrious expenses, not so much animato agitato of the spirits! I know. I am calmer since I cut down the half of my native maccaroni. For the times is bad, Signorina. No one is pining himself to learn the violoncello or listen to it. No, he prefer to dash away in a motor-car, and the poor musician—well, he must cut down his maccaroni and play to himself and give lessons to himself. Or he must change his profession and be motor-car driver. I have the serious thoughts about it, Signorina. But I will not drive you and 'brother' till I have practised on other people. Ha, here is 'brother.'"

Ronald came in looking pleased.

"We have got the order for that organ in Natal," he said, nodding to Signor Luigi. "I am awfully glad about it. Don't go, Luigi."

"Noble 'brother,' I must go," the little Italian answered. "I have a pupil at twelve o'clock, and it is now two. She go out in the motor-car, and I allow her three whole hours for being late for her lesson. Ah, the times has indeed changed. The enthusiasms has gone to sleep. Never mind. Vive le quartette! Remember, 'brother,' there is a meeting next week at Herr Edelhart's, and an audience of one is expected."

He looked at Katharine as he spoke, put his hand to his heart, and was gone. But he returned immediately, and added:

"Monsieur Gervais begged the Signorina would be careful not to get the brain fevers over her hard work. He will come next week to pay his compliments. He says he now has the inflammations of the lungs himself."

Ronald, left alone with Katharine, put his hand on her arm.

"Kath," he said gently, "you must not work too hard. You are looking tired. I know well that my shameful behaviour has ploughed into you awfully. You have been a brick to me, old girl. You shall never regret that you stood by me with your money and your kindness. I shall never forget how you hurried back from Norway, and came to the rescue, and saved me and the good name of the firm. I can't say much about it to you now, for I am still too ashamed. But——"

"We went through bad times, Ronald, you and I and Gwendolen," Katharine answered; "but we are coming out of it with our chins well up in the air and a better understanding in our hearts. I had lost you, Ronnie; but I have found you again. I had never won Gwendolen, but—but I am winning her. And there is nothing to thank me for. This crisis in your affairs was my salvation. I never forget that. There are other crises than business crises, Ronnie. And I have been very thankful to turn away from inner troubles to outside difficulties. I begin to see why life is far easier to men than to women. The fight with the outer world braces men up. They go forth, and pass on strengthened. But the women are chained to circumstance—or chain themselves."

"You are in trouble, Kath, and have not told me?" he asked reproachfully.

"There was nothing to tell, dearest," she said, touched by his old loving manner.

"In the old days you would have told me that nothing," he said sorrowfully.

She looked up from the letters which she had suddenly begun to arrange. There were tears in her eyes. There was a grey sadness spread over her face. She was not the old Katharine of a few months ago.

"Kath," he said, "I have been thinking only of myself. I have not been noticing. But I see you are in trouble. May not a selfish fellow know even at the eleventh hour?"

She shook her head as she took his hand and fondled it.

"Some day, Ronnie," she said, almost in a whisper; "not just now."

She could not tell him. She could not tell any one. She owed it to her own self-respect, her own wounded pride, to keep silent about Clifford Thornton's strange silence to her. When she had left the Gaard, she had come home by the overland route, vi Copenhagen and Hamburg. At Hamburg she had rested for a few hours, and in the hotel facing the lake she had written to Clifford. She poured her whole heart, all her longing and love, all her understanding tenderness into that letter. She wrote it feverishly, with emotional abandonment of all restraint. She loved him, believed in him, and what she could not tell him face to face up at Peer Gynt's stue she told him in that letter. And she received no answer to it. More than three months had passed since she wrote it, and still no sign had come from him, no signal across the vast, nothing. She had offered all she could offer, her best self—and his answer was silence. She suffered. She did not regret her impulsiveness. Throughout her life Katharine had been willing to take the consequences of her emotional temperament. She had never shrunk from paying the due price exacted by life from those who do not pause to think and weigh. Nevertheless her heart was chilled, her pride was wounded. But she said to herself time after time that she would not willingly have written one sentence, one word less. She was impelled to write that letter in that way. No other way would have been possible to her. But she believed that, from his point of view, she had said too much, let herself go too far, frightened the reserved man, lost his respect perhaps, touched him perhaps too roughly on the painful wounds which the chances of life had inflicted on him.

It was great good luck for her that she had work to do, and pressing matters and anxieties which demanded her time and intelligence. She turned herself into a business woman with that remarkable adaptability which men are only beginning to recognise and appreciate in the other sex. From her pretty flat across the water she sallied forth day after day to the organ-factory. The manager and the workmen welcomed her. They were willing to teach her. She was willing to learn. Her quick brain dealt with difficulties in a surprising fashion. Mr Barlow, the manager, had always believed in her business capacities; and it was encouraging to her to know that he was not disappointed. Moreover, she had stepped into the thick of things at a serious crisis, and by her generous action had safeguarded the honour and position of the firm; for she had sold out many of her own investments to meet Ronald's Stock Exchange debts, which otherwise might have been enforced against him as a partner of the firm. She had covered up his extravagant recklessness and his indifferent husbanding of their united interests. She knew that he had yielded to dishonourable recklessness as many another man had yielded before—for love of, and at the importunity of, a woman. She knew that as the months had gone on, he must have been increasingly harassed and torn between his passionate love for Gwendolen and his own natural feelings of what was upright in his business relationships. She was very pitiful with him: yearning as a mother over him. But on one point she was adamant. Ronald had sent Gwendolen to rich friends in the North. Katharine insisted that she should return and take her part at once in Ronald's altered circumstances; for the luxurious house in South Kensington had to be given up, and a more modest home sought for and found in Chelsea. Ronald fought this. He wished to spare his goddess.

"She has never been accustomed to having things in a small way," he said.

"Then she must learn," Katharine answered determinedly.

"You are hard on your own sex," Ronald had said, stung by her decided manner.

"I believe in my own sex," Katharine replied, flushing. "Most women are bricks, Ronnie, if men will allow them to be so. You men make fools of women in the early days of your passionate love, and then later, when it is too late, expect them to behave as sane and reasonable human beings. Gwendolen must come, and at once."

It was in vain that he pleaded.

"She is so young and beautiful, Kath, and she is having such a happy time up North," he said. "I cannot bear to bring her back to worries."

"She must come," Katharine answered.

So Gwendolen came rustling back in her silks and satins, and astonished every one, including herself, by her delighted behaviour.

"Dear old Kath!" she said. "You did not think I was a monster of selfishness and iniquity, but believed in me. You will see how fearfully economical I shall be in the future. I shall sell all my jewels, dress in brown holland, and take in all the darning of the neighbourhood!"

So Katharine had reason to be a little comforted. If she had lost some joys in life, she had gained others.

But she fretted. She had not much leisure, but in her spare time she went down to the Natural History Museum and hung over the cases in the Mineral Department. That was a mournful sort of consolation to her: to be where she had been with Clifford. Once or twice she started off to see Alan. But she turned back. If the father had given no sign, it was not fitting for her to seek out the boy. Several times she wrote long letters to Knutty, and tore them up. The letters she did send to Knutty contained no allusion to Clifford. When the old Dane read them, she said, "Great powers! Is she becoming an iceberg too, or am I mad?"

She sat constantly in the Abbey. She listened to the organ, to the singing. She thought of the gracious day in the summer when Clifford and she had passed along by the glacier-river, and stopped to rest in the old brown church where they sat silently. There was no organ. There was no singing. The music was in their own hearts.

One day she met Herr Edelhart in the Poet's Corner. He was looking grave.

"Yes," he said, "the times are wunderbar bad for great souls, great artistes like mineself. No one wishes to hear me play. And, lieber Himmel, when I think of it, what a tone I have! In this Abbey I could make my little violino into a great orchestra. Ach, FrÄulein, but you know. You, with the wunderbar charm, know. But you yourself are sad. 'Brother's' troubles have been too much for you?"

Katharine smiled to herself.

"Poor 'brother'!" she thought. "I am letting him be held responsible for all my sadness."

Willy Tonedale was the only one who did not think Ronald entirely responsible for Katharine's altered manner. He questioned her about Clifford Thornton, and could get nothing from her in the way of confidence. He found her reading weird books about dreams, their meaning and their relationship to normal consciousness. She spent long hours over that subject, and could make nothing of it.

"I did not know you went in for this sort of game, Kath," he said one day.

"Oh, I do not go in for it," she said, with a slight laugh. "But I was curious to see what had been written about it. The books are disappointing. They record such trivial incidents."

Willy looked at her uneasily.

"I believe you are going to become a scholar as well as a business woman, Kath," he said.

He shook his head. He seemed to think that she was in a very bad way.

A few days afterwards he found her studying a scientific book, "Outlines of Organic Chemistry." It was true that she had it upside down; but, as he remarked, that only added to the abstruseness of the subject.

"Good heavens, Kath!" he said, as he took up the book gingerly, treating it as if it were an explosive, "what on earth have you got here? Didn't know you went in for chemistry too. What in the name of all the CÆsars does an asymmetric atom of carbon mean? I never heard of the beasty before."

"Nor did I," answered Katharine, with a hopeless smile. That book had really been too much for her. Yet she loved to have it. It was only one of the many scientific books she had been buying since she returned from Norway. Willy saw them on the shelf. They were nearly all lives of great chemists, or handbooks on chemistry. He examined them one by one, and then turned to her.

"Kath," he said gently, "don't forget that you trusted me before."

CHAPTER II.

But Katharine could tell him nothing; and he, seeing that she wished to keep her own counsel, asked her nothing. But he insisted that she should spend some of her leisure time in his home; and when she was there, he tried to be, so he said, his brightest and quickest self, in order to cheer her and chase away all bad effects of business and culture. One Sunday when she went, he was in great spirits. He had sold his picture of Mary, Queen of Scots.

"You now see the advantage of working slowly," he said in a grandiose manner. "I have taken sixteen years of continuous thought and study to paint that immortal picture. One year less would not have done the trick! By Jove! Kath, won't that look well in the papers? All the fellows I know paint six pictures a-year, or write twelve books a-month. But I, Willy Tonedale, the much-abused slow one, have painted one picture in sixteen years. I admit that an artist does not become rich on one picture in sixteen years. But reflect, I beg you, on the thought, the patient historic research involved, and the reward reached after long, long years of toil! What a good thing I didn't die over that pneumonia affair! I should have gone spark out if you had not come over from Norway and called me back to life. I began to get better directly you returned, Kath, and directly mother left off engaging the Christian Science creature to heal me. Of course mother makes out that I was cured by Christian Science; but I say I was cured by Katharine Science. Smart of me, isn't it? But then I am getting awfully sharp! I'm amazed at myself. Seems to me, though, that as I become sharper, every one I know becomes duller. Margaret is quite flattened out with Causes, and wears sandals. Mother is a weird mixture of depression and superiority from Christian Science and the Salisbury treatment; even my belovÈd cousin Julia looks devitalised and chastened. She only speaks in a whisper, and her face is the colour of artichoke-soup. She says she had a fright in Norway."

Katharine laughed.

"I should think she did have a fright in Norway," Katharine said, brightening up. And she told Willy something of what had happened up at the Saeter.

"And what are you going to do to her when you see her?" he asked.

"Nothing," Katharine answered. "I do not mind what she thinks of me. I know you do not think I ever behaved badly to you."

"I know what I am going to do to her when I see her again," he said.

"Don't do anything stupid," Katharine said. "It isn't worth while."

"What will Professor Thornton do to her?" Willy asked slowly, after a pause.

"I could not say," replied Katharine quietly. "Probably nothing."

"Haven't you seen him lately?" Willy asked.

"No," she replied, turning away from him. She could not bear to talk of Clifford, and yet she wished to make the effort in return for all Willy's gentle kindness.

Willy waited. She turned to him again with her old impulsiveness, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I think he did not care for me after all, Willy," she said almost in a whisper. "That is all there is to tell you."

"It would not be possible for him not to care," Willy answered; and this time it was he who turned away.

"But, all the same, Kath," he went on when he had recovered himself, "you must not work too hard at business. Ronnie is a duffer and doesn't see, and Gwendolen wouldn't notice if any one were ill except herself. But I know you are overdoing it. I don't half like your being down at the factory."

"It is most curious how I seem to have to apologise to my friends for taking up some serious work," Katharine said. "No one would have any criticism to make if I were tiring myself over pleasure. And yet I assure you that dealing with pipes and reeds and bellows and sounding-boards and pedals, and even clergymen, is far less tiring than the ordinary routine of leisured pleasure, and much more interesting."

"I always understood clergymen were tiring persons," Willy suggested.

"They may be tiring in their pulpits," Katharine answered, "but not when they come to order organs! At any rate, one can put up with them then. Then, the price is worth the preaching!"

"Ah," he said, "there is a bit of your old fun again. Your friends will not mind what you do, if only you keep your old bright happiness; we'll allow you to be as business-like, as cultured, as learned—yes, Kath—as scientific as you please, only you must not be unhappy. I'm not going to be unhappy. I am going to begin another picture to-morrow. I shall get cousin Julia to sit for me as Lucretia Borgia in a chastened mood. Do you remember my saying that you were made for happiness? As I am a living artist of great but slow genius, I mean it, Kath. You'll get your heart's desires. I know you will. Believe my word. I am never mistaken. And as for cousin Julia, you are right, we will not bother about her: she will have to sit for Lucretia Borgia."

"I think that ought to be a severe enough punishment," Katharine answered. "To sit to you for—sixteen weary years!"

At that moment the door opened, and the servant announced Mrs Stanhope.

Mrs Stanhope, who was looking pale, came into the studio. She glanced at Katharine, and seemed confused; for since her return from Norway she had been haunted by fears of prosecutions for slander and other terrors of the law.

Katharine made no sign, no movement. She appeared not to see Mrs Stanhope. But Willy, without any hesitation, went forward to greet his cousin Julia.

"Cousin Julia," he said, with his peculiar drawl, which was always accentuated when he was particularly stirred, "I am glad you have come. I have been hearing that up on a Norwegian mountain, you made the statement that Katharine Frensham played with me—and threw me over. Yes, she has played with me. We've played together ever since I can remember; and even as little children, we were proud of our jolly good understanding. But she never threw me over. And, by Jove, I hope she never will."

"I am glad I was mistaken, Willy," Mrs Stanhope said, with a touch of diluted sarcasm.

"Yes, I daresay you are," he answered. "But I rather advise you not to make any more mistakes of that sort. Might be awkward for you. Can't help being sorry for you though, cousin Julia. I believe Professor Thornton intends——"

Mrs Stanhope turned paler.

"Where is your mother?" she asked hurriedly.

"Gone to a Christian Science or Salisbury Service," he replied. "Don't know which. I always mix up those two services."

Then Mrs Stanhope, with another glance at Katharine, who still ignored her presence, hastened away.

"By Jove, Kath!" Willy said when they were alone again, "I never saw you so still or so quiet before. You didn't move a muscle."

"If I had moved a muscle, I should have whipped her!" Katharine answered with some of her old spirit.

"Ah," said Willy, nodding his head approvingly, "I perceive you won't die yet. You are still human."

CHAPTER III.

It was the 19th of December. Clifford was sitting in his study at "Falun" when the letters were brought to him. He did not look up from his work. The postman could bring him nothing that he cared to have that day; for he had already heard from Alan, who was still at school; he knew that all was well with the boy, and that he would be home for the holidays on the 21st.

For nearly four months he had waited and longed for a letter from Katharine. But now he had given up hoping. He believed that he had alienated her by his merciless outspokenness up at Peer Gynt's stue; not at the moment, for he remembered the ring in her voice and the expression on her face when she said, "Judge you—judge you," but later, when, quietly by herself, in her own surroundings, away from him, she was able to think things out and measure them. She had judged him—and left him. He suffered. He dared not attempt to approach her. He had told her all—and her answer was silence. He haunted Westminster and Stangate; but he never met her once. He walked up and down Westminster Bridge, knowing that if he did see her in the distance, he would be constrained to turn away. For he had told her all; and since her answer was silence, he had no right to force himself on her.

"Love has passed me by," he said to himself sadly.

He made no accusation on life.

"I was not worthy of it," he said.

"I had to tell her all," he said. "I had to lay it all before her."

"Love was so near to me," he said. "I almost reached it. And now I have to pass on alone."

He went two or three times during the term to see Alan. Alan was well and happy. But he was disappointed that Katharine had not been to see him.

"She promised, father," he said. "And I've looked for her week after week. But I believe that she will still come."

"Do you?" asked Clifford eagerly.

"Yes," the boy answered. "She was not the sort of chum to break her word."

"She promised to write to me," Clifford said. "But I have not heard."

"Oh, you'll hear," Alan said staunchly.

But that was several weeks before Christmas; and now Christmas had nearly come, and Katharine's promised visit to Alan had not been paid, nor her promised letter to Clifford been received.

And the man had given up expecting it. So now he did not look up from his work. He had looked up many times on other occasions and been disappointed. He had gone back to his work many times with a sore feeling of personal bereftness, as though fate had put him outside the inner heart of things. So now he bent over his desk, immersed in some abstruse calculation. After an hour, he rose and went to his laboratory to give some instructions to his new assistant, a young Welshman from Aberystwith, who had arrived that morning. A case of glass apparatus had just been brought in. He lingered to see if they were in good condition. He came out, and then went back to fetch his notebook, which he had left on the bench. He stood for a moment looking at the enlargements which he had carried out since his return from Norway.

"Alan and Knutty will be pleased," he said.

"I had hoped that she too would—would see them," he thought. "I hoped—ah, I don't know what I hoped. I was mad."

He returned to his study and closed the door. He stood leaning against the mantelpiece, thinking. His grave face looked sad. He had reconquered his power of working. Peace was in his house; but sore loneliness and longing were in his heart. Still, he was working, and with satisfaction to that part of his nature which had been so greatly harassed by poor Marianne's merciless turbulence.

"After all, I only asked to work and to be at peace," he said aloud, as if in answer to some insistent disputant.

"But——" began that inner voice.

"I only asked to work and be at peace," he answered again sternly.

Then he went to the table by the door and looked at his letters. One was from Knutty.

"No," he said, as he fingered it; "Knutty asks an impossibility of me. She does not know all—she does not see all around. Katharine Frensham has shown by her silence that...."

He opened Knutty's letter. There was one enclosed, addressed in a gallant handwriting: "Clifford Thornton, Esq., Solli Gaard, Gudbrandsdal, Norway." It was old and stained. On a slip of paper Knutty had written: "Solli has this moment sent this letter to me. He says it must have been to many Sollis all over the Gudbrandsdal, until the Norwegian post-office got tired. You see there is no district mentioned, and Solli is as common as Smith. Ragnhild Solli found it reposing in the Otta post-office, waiting, no doubt, for next year's tourists."

Clifford's hands trembled. A great pain had seized his beating heart. He sank down into his chair, broke open the letter, and read with dim eyes the following lines:—

CHAPTER IV.

"Judge you, judge you. Oh, my dearest, my dearest, if I could have told you what was in my heart when you said those words to me, up at Peer Gynt's stue, then I should not be writing this letter to you, though I want to write it, want to write down everything that is in my heart, everything that sprang into flower at the moment when I first saw you. For I love you, and I am holding out my arms to you, have been holding them out ever since I first saw you. Does it seem overbold that I say this to you? Why should not a woman say it? Anyway, I say it, and am not ashamed. I love you, and I am waiting for you. I have loved you with tears in my heart from the very beginning, grieving over you as over one whom I had known all my life, and with whom I had the right to sympathise with all the sympathy of my best nature.

"You know, dearest, I had been away from England for three years. You remember that I told you I went away when my brother married. I can never describe to you how I had dreaded my home-coming. There was nothing and no one to come back for. Twice I turned back. I had not the courage to face the loneliness which, with my mind's eyes, I saw stretched before me like some desolate plain. But one day I felt a sudden irresistible impulse to return. When I saw you that evening, I knew that I had returned to find you. And I knew that in some strange way you recognised me and claimed me in your heart of hearts, as I claimed you. From that moment my life changed.

"Is it not wonderful, my belovÈd, how one rises up and goes forth to meet love: how time and space become annihilated, and all barriers of mind and circumstance are swept away as by an avalanche? Yes, from that moment my life changed, and yours changed too. But I knew that I had to wait. I knew that you had to free yourself in your own way from the memories which were encompassing you. And all the time I was yearning to say to you: 'Do not fight with the past. Do not try to push the past on one side. It can never be forgotten, never be ignored. But something better can be done with it. It can be faced, understood, and then gathered up with the present and the future. Let me help you to do it. I will gather it up with a tenderness never dreamed of before in the whole world of love.'

"All this I yearned to say to you before I knew the whole history of your troubled life. And now that you have told me the whole history, what shall I say to you? I will say to you that my love for you is a thousandfold greater than before: that as I learn to know the depth of your suffering and sadness, I shall learn to make my love deeper still to reach those depths: that I am waiting for you, with arms outstretched, a thousandfold more eagerly than before: that my love for you is the love of a woman for a man, the sore yearning of one kindred spirit for another kindred spirit, the tender sympathy of friend with friend, the frank understanding of comrade with comrade,—this is my love for you.

"Take it, my belovÈd. It is yours. If it were worthier of you, I should be more joyous still in offering it. But, side by side with you, the best and the worst in me will become better. This is my answer to you. This is the answer I longed to give you up at Peer Gynt's stue. Everything that I have been telling you now was in my heart then. But I could not, dared not, tell you then. You knew why I was silent? Let us speak of it, dearest. I saw your poor Marianne's face. And that moment, the moment of my life, when the story had been told to the very end, and your barrier had been broken down—-that moment was consecrated to her. I shall always feel deeply thankful that I, an impulsive, impetuous woman, was able to be silent then—was able to turn from you then....

"And now, my Clifford, I want to speak to you of Marianne's death. There will come times when you will be assailed by this old wrongful belief that you were responsible for her sad end. You and I will fight those times out together. I have no fear of them; I have no fear of that poor Marianne; I have no fear of anything. You and I will work through those cruel hours. You must and shall learn to be just to yourself. You spoke of Marianne's defenceless state of dreaming. I remember those were your very words. I remember that my heart and mind cried out to you, 'And your own defenceless state of dreaming? May no one plead that to you?'

"I plead it now. I plead it with my heart, my brain, my spirit. My belovÈd, I entreat of you to give yourself bare justice; nothing more. I would not wish you to sacrifice one inch of the gentle chivalry of your nature. If I were asking you to do that, I should indeed be asking you an unworthy thing. If I were asking you to do that, I should be asking you to injure that which I love and adore in you. But bare justice: a cold, stern, reluctant measuring-out. That is all I entreat of you to give yourself. Will you do this? Will you trust me? You may trust me. If I had my doubts, it would not be possible for me to keep them back. I might try, and I should fail. I am not a prisoner of silence. My words and thoughts come tumbling out recklessly. You may trust me. I should tell you, and risk losing you and breaking my heart—because I could not help myself.

"Lose you now that I have found you. No, no, that can never be. I am yours, you are mine. We dare not lose each other now that we have found each other. We have found each other not very early in life, but what does that matter? What does Time matter to you and me? I never yet knew the time of day, the day of the month, the month of the year, nor cared to know. But I knew full well when spring had come. I know that spring has come now. I rise up from the darkness of winter to meet the glorious days which you and I will live through together. You have made my life splendid for me already, and I will make your life splendid for you. You shall love and work, and work and love. Your career shall be a glory to me. You shall go on and on, and be all things you want to be, and do all the things you want to do, and take your rightful place in your own world—my world, because it is yours. And I, who know nothing of science, will become a woman of science—because I love you. Ah, I can see a smile on your grave face. You are thinking that the paths to science are long and arduous. Long and arduous indeed! I shall find the short cut—because I love you.

"And, oh, my dearest, we will not shut others out in the cold because we love. I have been out in the cold. I have been freezing there until you came into my life. Great love and great sorrow are apt to shut the whole world out of the Cathedral. Let us keep the doors wide open. Then those who love us can come in.

"My dearest, my belovÈd, if you only knew, it has not been easy for me to tear myself away from Norway, from you, from Alan, from Knutty, from the beautiful surroundings where our love has grown apace. But my brother was in trouble, and, you see, the Cathedral doors had to be opened at once. And if I had spoken to you and told you all that this letter tells you, I could not have left you. But it tears my heart to be away from you. All the time I have wanted passionately to turn back and come to you and say, 'I am yours, and you are mine.' But I went on and on, in spite of myself, farther away from you, and yet getting nearer every minute—that has been my consolation: that I was getting nearer to you, because—because at a distance I dared to open my heart to you—because—the moment of silence up at Peer Gynt's stue was past—not forgotten, not ignored—but gathered up tenderly, tenderly. So I get nearer to you all the time. That is why I am writing this long letter to you. Every word has sped me quicker on my joyous way to you. When I began it I was near to you, my belovÈd. Now that I am ending it, I am by your side. There is no space between us.

"But before I end it, there is something else I want to tell you. I want to tell you how I love and admire you for not having become bitter. It is so easy to become bitter. You must have lifted the cup of bitterness to your lips many a time, and then put it resolutely down. Will you forgive me if I speak of this? It is only because I want you to know that I have always prized that power ever since I can remember; striven after it myself; failed lamentably; but shall not fail now, because of you.

"Yes, and there is still something else I must tell you. Do you remember that I did not come back to the Gaard, but stayed behind at the posting-station? Oh, my dearest, you can never know what it cost me not to be there, with Knutty and Alan, to receive you if by chance you should have returned. You can never know what it would have cost me if I had lost you.

"Lost you. No, no. It was impossible, once having found you. It is impossible. I should find you, over the mountains, over the sea—anywhere.

"Oh, my dearest, Norway will always be the fairest land in the whole world to me: the land where the barrier was broken down between you and me.

The letter fell from Clifford's hands. He leaned over his desk, and covered his face with his hands. The tears streamed down his cheeks. Then he took the letter, pressed it to his heart, kissed it passionately, kissed the signature, read it all over again with dim eyes, pressed it to his heart again—and was made whole.

When he had recovered himself, he rang the bell, ordered the trap, caught the train to Waterloo, and ran up the stairs to Katharine's flat.

Katharine had come home rather earlier than usual from business. She had finished tea, and was standing by the window of her pretty drawing-room, watching the lights on the river. She was in one of her sad, lonely moods; she was feeling outside everything.

"Mercifully I have my work," she said to herself. "If any one had told me ten years ago that I should be thankful to go down to business every day at the same hour, I could not have believed it."

Some one had sent her Matthew Arnold's poems as a Christmas present. She took the volume now, and opened it at these words:—

She read them through again. Then she leaned against the mantelshelf and stared into the fire, still holding the book in her hand.

The bell rang. Katharine did not hear. The thought in those words was holding her. The door opened. Katharine did not hear. Gerda's Swedish song had suddenly come into her remembrance, "The lover whom thou lov'st so well, thou shalt reach him never."

She recalled the time when she had first heard it. She saw the great Gudbrandsdal spread out before her, and the hillside opposite the Solli Gaard, where Gerda was strolling, singing as she went. She remembered Knutty's words, "But that is not true for you. You will reach him; I know you will reach him." She remembered that when she turned round, she saw that Clifford had come back from over the seas.

Something impelled her to turn round now—and she saw him.

"Katharine, my belovÈd," he said in a voice that thrilled through her, "I have only just had your letter."

And he folded her in his arms.

Long and silently they stood thus, whilst outside in the great world, the noise of the traffic went on unheeded, the barges passed down the river, the lights of Westminster shone out, Big Ben rang the hour of the evening, stars crowned the towers of the Abbey, the moon rose above the Houses of Parliament.

So they had found each other at last.

The lonely wilderness of their inner hearts became a fair and gracious garden.

And when their long embrace was over, and the moment for speech had come, they sat near together as lovers, friends, comrades of all time, talking frankly and fearlessly of the sad past which was to be gathered up with sane and tender understanding into the present and the future, talking of their love for each other: of their first meeting: of their separation: of their longings after each other: of their companionship in Norway: of this three months' desolation in England: of Knutty's impatient admonitions that they should break through all reserve and seek each other out: of Alan's love and trust restored and strengthened: of their new life, in which he would grow up to manhood in gladness and happiness: of Mrs Stanhope, made of no account by reason of their great joy: of Knutty's unselfish anxiety on their behalf: of her tenderness and all her dear quaint ways: and of Alan's criticism of Katharine, "She is not the sort of chum to break her word."

"And I will not break it," Katharine said joyously. "We can go together to-morrow and fetch him back."

Suddenly there came a loud knock at the hall-door. And when it was opened, an excited voice with a slight foreign accent asked impatiently for Miss Frensham.

Clifford and Katharine heard it. They looked at each other.

"It's Knutty!" they cried together; and they ran out into the hall.

"Knutty! Knutty!" they cried. "Welcome! welcome!"

"Dear ones," she answered, gasping. "Oh, what stairs! I hope I shan't die from apoplexy, but I feel very much like it now. Talk about sea-sickness indeed! Stair-sickness is much worse! Ak, ak! Give me some aqua vitÆ or some mysost instantly! Ak, ak, why did I ever come? Oh yes, I know why I came. No use writing and inquiring. Could have got no news out of an iceberg. So I came to see for myself. And what do I see? By St Olaf! I see daylight—full daylight! Gerda and Ejnar said I was not to interfere. Interfere! Of course I shall! It is the duty of every woman not to mind her own business! Oh, those stairs! I believe there were nearly a hundred of them! Dear ones, dear ones, what a happy old woman I am! If I don't die from apoplexy, I shall cry from happiness! What it is to be a Viking...!"

THE END.