“The house seems quiet without Frithiof,” remarked Herr Falck on the Monday after his son’s departure.

Frithiof at that very moment was walking through the streets of Hull, feeling lonely and desolate enough. They felt desolate without him at Bergen, and began to talk much of his return, and to wonder when the wedding would be, and to settle what presents they would give Blanche.

The dining-room looked very pleasant on that October morning. Sigrid, though never quite happy when her twin was away, was looking forward eagerly to his return, and was so much cheered by the improvement in her father’s health and spirits that she felt more at rest than she had done for some time. Little Swanhild, whose passion for Blanche increased daily, was in the seventh heaven of happiness, and though she had not been told everything, knew quite well that the general expectation was that Frithiof would be betrothed to her ideal. As for Herr Falck he looked eager and hopeful, and it seemed as if some cloud of care had been lifted off him. He talked more than he had done of late, teased Swanhild merrily about her lessons, and kept both girls laughing and chattering at the table till Swanhild had to run off in a hurry, declaring that she should be late for school.

“You should not tell such funny stories in the morning, little father!” she said laughingly, as she stopped for the customary kiss and “tak for maden” (thanks for the meal) on her way out of the room.

“Ah, but to laugh is so good for the digestion,” said Herr Falck. “You will read English all the better in consequence. See if you don’t.”

“Are you busy to-day, father?” asked Sigrid, as the door closed behind the little girl.

“Not at all. I shall take a walk before going to the office. I tell you what, Sigrid, you shall come with me and get a new English story at Beyer’s, to cheer you in Frithiof’s absence. What was the novel some one told you gave the best description of English home life?”

“‘Wives and Daughters,’” said Sigrid.

“Well, let us get it then, and afterward we will take a turn above Walkendorf’s Tower, and see if there is any sign of our vessels from Iceland.”

“You heard good news of them last month, did you not?” asked Sigrid.

“No definite news, but everything was very hopeful. They sent word by the steamer to Granton, and telegraphed from there to our station in Öifjord.”

“What did they say?”

“That as yet there was no catch of herrings, but that everything was most promising, as plenty of whales were seen every day at the mouth of the fjord. Oh, I am perfectly satisfied. I have had no anxiety about the expedition since then.” So father and daughter set out together. It was a clear frosty morning, the wintry air was invigorating, and Sigrid thought she had never seen her father look so well before; his step seemed so light, his brow so smooth, his eyes so unclouded. Beyer’s shop had fascinations for them both; she lingered long in the neighborhood of the Tauchnitz shelves, while Herr Falck discussed the news with some one behind the counter, and admired the pictures so temptingly displayed.

“Look here, Sigrid!” he exclaimed. “Did you ever see a prettier little water-color than that? Bergen in winter, from the harbor. What is the price of it? A hundred kroner? I must really have it. It shall be a present to you in memory of our walk.”

Sigrid was delighted with the picture, and Herr Falck himself seemed as pleased with it as a child with a new toy. They talked away together, planning where it should hang at home and saying how it was just the sort of thing Frithiof would like.

“It is quite a pity he did not see it when he was away in Germany, he would have liked to have it when he was suffering from Heimweh,” said Sigrid.

“Well, all that sort of thing is over for him, I hope,” said Herr Falck. “No need that he should be away from Bergen any more, except now and then for a holiday. And if ever you marry a foreigner, Sigrid, you will be able to take Bergen with you as a consolation.”

They made their way up to a little wooded hill above the fortress, which commanded a wide and beautiful view.

“Ah!” cried Herr Falck. “Look there, Sigrid! Look, look! there is surely a vessel coming.”

She gazed out seaward.

“You have better eyes than I have, father. Whereabouts? Oh! yes, now I see, ever so far away. Do you think it is one of yours?”

“I can’t tell yet,” said Herr Falck; and glancing at him she saw that he was in an agony of impatience, and that the old troubled look had come back to his face.

Again the nameless fear which had seized her in the summer took possession of her. She would not bother him with questions, but waited silently beside him, wondering why he was so unusually excited, wishing that she understood business matters, longing for Frithiof, who would perhaps have known all about it and could have reassured her.

“Yes, yes,” cried Herr Falck at length, “I am almost sure it is one of our Öifjord vessels. Yes! I am certain it is the ‘Solid.’ Now the great question is this—is she loaded or only ballasted?”

The fresh, strong wind kept blowing Sigrid’s fringe about distractingly; sheltering her eyes with her hand, she looked again eagerly at the approaching vessel.

“I think she is rather low in the water, father, don’t you?”

“I hope so—I hope so,” said Herr Falck, and he took off his spectacles and began to wipe the dim glasses with fingers that trembled visibly.

The ship was drawing nearer and nearer, and every moment Sigrid realized more that it was not as she had first hoped. Undoubtedly the vessel was high in the water. She glanced apprehensively at her father.

“I can’t bear this any longer, Sigrid,” he exclaimed. “We will go down to Tydskebryggen, and take a boat and row out to her.”

They hurried away, speaking never a word. Sigrid feared that her father would send her home, thinking it would be cold for her on the water, but he allowed her to get into the little boat in silence, perhaps scarcely realizing her presence, too much taken up with his great anxiety to think of anything else. As they threaded their way through the busy harbor, she began to feel a little more cheerful. Perhaps, after all, the matter was not so serious. The sun shone brightly on the sparkling water; the sailors and laborers on the vessels and the quays shouted and talked at their work; on a steamer, which they passed, one of the men was cleaning the brass-work and singing blithely the familiar tune of “SÖnner av Norge.”

“We must hope for the best,” said Herr Falck, perhaps also feeling the influence of the cheerful tune.

Just as they neared the “Solid” the anchor dropped.

“You had better wait here,” said Heir Falck, “while I go on board. I’ll not keep you long, dear.”

Nevertheless, anxious waiting always does seem long, and Sigrid, spite of her sealskin jacket, shivered as she sat in the little boat. It was not so much the cold that made her shiver, as that horrible nameless dread, that anxiety which weighed so much more heavily because she did not fully understand it.

When her father rejoined her, her worst fears were realized. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, but, just giving a word of direction to the boatman, sat down in his place with folded arms and bent head. She knew instantly that some terrible disaster must have happened, but she did not dare to ask what it was; she just sat still listening to the monotonous stroke of the oars, and with an uneasy wonder in her mind as to what would happen next. They were nearing the shore, and at last her father spoke.

“Pay the man, Sigrid,” he said, and with an unsteady hand he gave her his purse. He got out of the boat first and she fancied she saw him stagger, but the next moment he recovered himself and turned to help her. They walked away together in the direction of the office.

“You must not be too anxious, dear child,” he said. “I will explain all to you this evening. I have had a heavy loss.”

“But, little father, you look so ill,” pleaded Sigrid. “Must you indeed go to the office? Why not come home and rest?”

“Rest!” said Herr Falck dreamily. “Rest? No, not just yet—not just yet. Send the carriage for me this afternoon, and say nothing about it to any one—I’ll explain it to you later on.”

So the father and daughter parted, and Sigrid went home to bear as best she could her day of suspense. Herr Falck returned later on, looking very ill, and complaining of headache. She persuaded him to lie down in his study, and would not ask him the question which was trembling on her lips. But in the evening he spoke to her.

“You are a good child, Sigrid, a good child,” he said, caressing her hand. “And now you must hear all, though I would give much to keep it from you. The Iceland expedition has failed, dear; the vessels have come back empty.”

“Does it mean such a very great loss to you, father?” she asked.

“I will explain to you,” he said, more eagerly; “I should like you to understand how it has come about. For some time trade has been very bad; and last year and the year before I had some heavy losses connected with the Lofoten part of the business.”

He seemed to take almost a pleasure in giving her all sorts of details which she could not half-understand; she heard in a confused way of the three steamers sent to Nordland in the summer with empty barrels and salt for the herrings; she heard about buying at the Bourse of Bergen large quantities, so that Herr Falck had ten thousand barrels at a time, and had been obliged to realize them at ruinous prices.

“You do not understand all this, my Sigrid,” he said, smiling at her puzzled face. “Well, I’ll tell you the rest more simply. Things were looking as bad as possible, and when in the summer I heard that Haugesund had caught thousands of barrels of herrings in the fjords of Iceland, I made up my mind to try the same plan, and to stake all on that last throw. I chartered sailing vessels, hired hands, bought nets, and the expedition set off—I knew that if it came back with full barrels I should be a rich man, and that if it failed, there was no help for it—my business must go to pieces.”

Sigrid gave a little cry. “You will be bankrupt?” she exclaimed. “Oh, surely not that, father—not that!”

She remembered all too vividly the bankruptcy of a well-known timber merchant some years before; she knew that he had raised money by borrowing on the Bank of Norway and on the Savings Bank of Bergen, and she knew that it was the custom of the land that the banks, avoiding risk in that way, demanded two sureties for the loan, and that the failure of a large firm caused distress far and wide to an extent hardly conceivable to foreigners.

“There is yet one hope,” said Herr Falck. “If the rumor I heard in the summer is false, and if I can still keep the connection with Morgans, that guarantees me seven thousand two hundred kroner a year, and in that case I have no doubt we could avoid open bankruptcy.”

“But how?” said Sigrid. “I don’t understand.”

“The Morgans would never keep me as their agent if I were declared a bankrupt, and, to avoid that, I think my creditors would accept as payment the outcome of all my property, and would give me what we call voluntary agreement; it is a form of winding up a failing concern which is very often employed. They would be the gainers in the long run, because of course they would not allow me to keep my seven thousand two hundred kroner untouched, so in any case, my child, I have brought you to poverty.”

He covered his face with his hands. Sigrid noticed that the veins about his temples stood out like blue cords, so much were they enlarged.

She put her arm about him, kissing his hair, his hands, his forehead.

“I do not mind poverty, little father. I mind only that you are so troubled,” she said. “And surely, surely they will not take the agency from you after all these years! Oh, poverty will be nothing, if only we can keep from disgrace—if only others need not be dragged down too!”

They were interrupted by a tap at the door, and Swanhild stole in, making the pretty little courtesy without which no well-bred Norwegian child enters or leaves a room.

“Mayn’t I come and say good-night to you, little father?” she asked. “I got on ever so well at school, just as you said, after our merry breakfast.”

The sight of the child’s unconscious happiness was more than he could endure; he closed his eyes that she might not see the scalding tears which filled them.

“How dreadfully ill father looks,” said Swanhild uneasily.

“His head is very bad,” said Sigrid. “Kiss him, dear, and then run to bed.”

But Herr Falck roused himself.

“I too will go up,” he said. “Bed is the best place, eh, Swanhild? God bless you, little one; good-night. What, are you going to be my walking-stick?”

And thus, steadying himself by the child, he went up to his room.

At breakfast the next morning he was in his place as usual, but he seemed very poorly, and afterward made no suggestion as to going down to the office, but lay on the sofa in his study, drowsily watching the flames in his favorite English fireplace. Sigrid went about the house busy with her usual duties, and for the time so much absorbed that she almost forgot the great trouble hanging over them. About eleven o’clock there was a ring at the door-bell; the servant brought in a telegram for Herr Falck. A sort of wild hope seized her that it might be from Frithiof. If anything could cheer her father on that day it would be to hear that all was happily settled, and, taking it from the maid, she bore it herself into her father’s room. He rose from the sofa as she entered.

“I am better, Sigrid,” he said. “I think I could go to the office. Ah! a telegram for me?”

“It has come this minute,” she said, watching him as he sat down before his desk, adjusted his spectacles, and tore open the envelope. If only Frithiof could send news that would cheer him! If only some little ray of brightness would come to lighten that dark day! She had so persuaded herself that the message must be from Frithiof that the thought of the business anxieties had become for the time quite subservient. The telegram was a long one.

“How extravagant that boy is!” she thought to herself. “Why, it would have been enough if he had just put ‘All right.’”

Then a sudden cry broke from her, for her father had bowed his head on his desk like a man who is overwhelmed.

“Father, father!” she cried, “oh! what is the matter?”

For a minute or two neither spoke nor moved. At last, with an effort, he raised himself. He looked up at her with a face of fixed despair, with eyes whose anguish wrung her heart.

“Sigrid,” he said, in a voice unlike his own, “they have taken the agency from me. I am bankrupt!”

She put her hand in his, too much stunned to speak.

“Poor children!” he moaned. “Ah! my God! my God! Why—?”

The sentence was never ended. He fell heavily forward: whether he was dead or only fainting she could not tell.

She rushed to the door calling for help, and the servants came hurrying to the study. They helped to move their master to the sofa, and Sigrid found a sort of comfort in the assurances of her old nurse that it was nothing but a paralytic seizure, that he would soon revive. The good old soul knew nothing, nor was she so hopeful as she seemed, but her words helped Sigrid to keep up; she believed them in the unreasoning sort of way in which those in trouble always do catch at the slightest hope held out to them.

“I will send Olga for the doctor,” she said breathlessly.

“Ay, and for your uncle, too,” said the nurse. “He’s your own mother’s brother, and ought to be here.”

“Perhaps,” said Sigrid hesitatingly. “Yes, Olga, go to Herr GrÖnvold’s house and just tell them of my father’s illness. But first for the doctor—as quick as you can.”

There followed a miserable time of waiting and suspense. Herr Falck was still perfectly unconscious; there were signs of shock about his face, which was pale and rigid, the eyelids closed, the head turned to one side. Sigrid took his cold hand in hers, and sat with her fingers on the pulse; she could just feel it, but it was very feeble and very rapid. Thus they waited till the doctor came. He was an old friend, and Sigrid felt almost at rest when she had told him all he wanted to know as to the beginning of the attack and the cause.

“You had better send for your brother at once,” he said. “I suppose he will be at the office?”

“Oh, no!” she said, trembling. “Frithiof is in England. But we will telegraph to him to come home.”

“My poor child,” said the old doctor kindly, “if he is in England it would be of no possible use; he would not be in time.”

She covered her face with her hands, for the first time utterly breaking down.

“Oh! is there no hope?” she sobbed. “No hope at all?”

“Remember how much he is spared,” said the doctor gently. “He will not suffer. He will not suffer at all any more.”

And so it proved; for while many went and came, and while the bad news of the bankruptcy caused Herr GrÖnvold to pace the room like one distracted, and while Sigrid and Swanhild kept their sad watch, Herr Falck lay in painless quiet—his face so calm that, had it not been for an occasional tremor passing through the paralyzed limbs, they would almost have thought he was already dead.

The hours passed on. At length little Swanhild, who had crouched down on the floor with her head in Sigrid’s lap, became conscious of a sort of stir in the room. She looked up and saw that the doctor was bending over her father.

“It is over,” he said, in a hushed voice as he stood up and glanced toward the two girls.

And Swanhild, who had never seen any one die, but had read in books of death struggles and death agonies, was filled with a great wonder.

“It was so quiet,” she said, afterward to her sister. “I never knew people died like that; I don’t think I shall ever feel afraid about dying again. But oh, Sigrid!” and the child broke into a passion of tears, “we have got to go on living all alone—all alone!”

Sigrid’s breast heaved. Alas! the poor child little knew all the troubles that were before them; as far as possible she must try to shield her from the knowledge.

“We three must love each other very much, darling,” she said, folding her arms about Swanhild. “We must try and be everything to each other.”

The words made her think of Frithiof, and with a sick longing for his presence she went downstairs again to speak to her uncle, and to arrange as to how the news should be sent to England. Herr GrÖnvold had never quite appreciated his brother-in-law, and this had always made a barrier between him and his nephew and nieces. He was the only relation, however, to whom Sigrid could turn, and she knew that he was her father’s executor, and must be consulted about all the arrangements. Had not she and Frithiof celebrated their twenty-first birthday just a week ago, Herr GrÖnvold would have been their guardian, and naturally he would still expect to have the chief voice in the family counsels.

She found him in the sitting-room. He was still pale and agitated. She knew only too well that although he would not say a word against her dead father, yet in his heart he would always blame him, and that the family disgrace would be more keenly felt by him than by any one. The sight of him entirely checked her tears; she sat down and began to talk to him quite calmly. All her feeling of youth and helplessness was gone now—she felt old, strangely old; her voice sounded like the voice of some one else—it seemed to have grown cold and hard.

“What must we do about telling Frithiof, uncle?” she said.

“I have thought of that,” said Herr GrÖnvold. “It is impossible that he could be back in time for the funeral. This is Tuesday afternoon, and he could not catch this week’s steamer, which leaves Hull at nine o’clock to-night. The only thing is to telegraph the news to him, poor boy. His best chance now is to stay in England and try to find some opening there, for he has no chance here at all.”

Sigrid caught her breath.

“You mean that he had better not even come back?”

“Indeed, I think England is the only hope for him,” said Herr GrÖnvold, perhaps hardly understanding what a terrible blow he was giving to his niece. “He is absolutely penniless, and over here the feeling will be so strong against the very name of Falck that he would never work his way up. I will gladly provide for you and Swanhild until he is able to make a home for you; but he must stay in England, there is no help for that.”

She could not dispute the point any further; her uncle’s words had shown her only too plainly the true meaning of the word “bankrupt.” Why, the very chair she was sitting on was no longer her own! A chill passed over her as she glanced round the familiar room. On the writing-table she noticed her housekeeping books, and realized that there was no longer any money to pay them with; on the bookshelf stood the clock presented a year or two ago to her father by the clerks in his office—that too must be parted with; everything most sacred, most dear to her, everything associated with her happy childhood and youth must be swept away in the vain endeavor to satisfy the just claims of her father’s creditors. In a sort of dreadful dream she sat watching her uncle as he wrote the message to Frithiof, hesitating long over the wording of the sad tidings, and ever and anon counting the words carefully with his pen. It would cost a good deal, that telegram to England. Sigrid knew that her uncle would pay for it, and the knowledge kept her lips sealed. It was absurd to long so to send love and sympathy at the rate of thirty Öre a word! Why, in the whole world she had not so much as a ten-Öre piece! Her personal possessions might, perhaps, legally belong to her, but she knew that there was something within her which would utterly prevent her being able to consider them her own. Everything must go toward those who would suffer from her father’s failure; and Frithiof would feel just as she did about the matter, of that she was certain.

“There, poor fellow,” said Herr GrÖnvold, “that will give him just the facts of the case: and you must write to him, Sigrid, and I, too, will write by the next mail.”

“I am afraid he cannot get a letter till next Monday,” said Sigrid.

“No, there is no help for that,” said Herr GrÖnvold. “I shall do all that can be done with regard to the business; that he will know quite well, and his return later on would be a mere waste of time and money. He must seek work in London without delay, and I have told him so. Do you think this is clear?”

He handed her the message he had written, and she read it through, though each word was like a stab.

“Quite clear,” she said, returning it to him.

Her voice was so tired and worn that it attracted his notice for the first time.

“My dear,” he said kindly, “it has been a terrible day for you; you had better go to bed and rest. Leave everything to me. I promise you all shall be attended to.”

“You are very kind,” she said, yet with all the time a terrible craving for something more than this sort of kindness, for something which was perhaps beyond Herr GrÖnvold’s power to give.

“Would you like your aunt or one of your cousins to spend the night here?” he asked.

“No,” she said; “I am better alone. They will come to-morrow. I—I will rest now.”

“Very well. Good-by, then, my dear. I will send off the telegram at once.”

She heard the door close behind him with a sense of relief, yet before many minutes had passed, the dreadful quiet of the house seemed almost more than she could endure.

“Oh, Frithiof, Frithiof! why did you ever go to England?” she moaned.

And as she sat crouched together in one of the deep easy-chairs, it seemed to her that the physical faintness, the feeling that everything was sliding away from her, was but the shadow of the bitter reality. She was roused by the opening of the door. Her old nurse stole in.

“See here, Sigrid,” said the old woman. “The pastor has come. You will see him in here?”

“I don’t think I can,” she said wearily.

“He is in the dining-room talking to Swanhild,” said the nurse: “you had better just see him a minute.”

But still Sigrid did not stir. It was only when little Swanhild stole in, with her wistful, tear-stained face, that she even tried to rouse herself.

“Sigrid,” said the child, “Herr Askevold has been out all day with some one who was dying; he is very tired and has had no dinner; he says if he may he will have supper with us.”

Sigrid at once started to her feet; her mind was for the moment diverted from her own troubles; it was the thought of the dear old pastor, tired and hungry, yet coming to them, nevertheless, which touched her heart. Other friends might perhaps forsake them in their trouble and disgrace, but not Herr Askevold. Later on, when she thought it over, she knew that it was for the sake of inducing them to eat, and for the sake of helping them through that terrible first meal without their father, that he had come in just then. She only felt the relief of his presence at the time, was only conscious that she was less desolate because the old white-haired man, who had baptized her as a baby and confirmed her as a girl, was sitting with them at the supper-table. His few words of sympathy as he greeted her had been the first words of comfort which had reached her heart, and now, as he cut the bread and helped the fish, there was something in the very smallness and fineness of his consideration and care for them which filled her with far more gratitude than Herr GrÖnvold’s offer of a home. They did not talk very much during the meal, but little Swanhild ceased to wonder whether it was wrong to feel so hungry on such a day, and, no longer ashamed of her appetite, went on naturally and composedly with her supper; while Sigrid, with her strong Norwegian sense of hospitality, ate for her guest’s sake, and in thinking of his wants was roused from her state of blank hopelessness.

Afterward she took him to her father’s room, her tears stealing down quietly as she looked once more on the calm, peaceful face that would never again bear the look of strained anxiety which had of late grown so familiar to her.

And Herr Askevold knelt by the bedside and prayed. She could never quite remember in after-days what it was that he said, perhaps she never very clearly took in the actual words; but something, either in his tone or manner, brought to her the sense of a presence altogether above all the changes that had been or ever could be. This new consciousness seemed to fill her with strength, and a great tenderness for Swanhild came to her heart; she wondered how it was she could ever have fancied that all had been taken from her.

As they rose from their knees and the old pastor took her hand in his to wish her good-by, he glanced a little anxiously into her eyes. But something he saw there comforted him.

“God bless you, my child,” he said.

And again as they opened the front door to him and he stepped out into the dark wintry night, he looked back, and said:

“God comfort you.”

Sigrid stood on the threshold, behind her the lighted hall, before her the starless gloom of the outer world, her arm was round little Swanhild, and as she bade him good-night, she smiled, one of those brave, patient smiles that are sadder than tears.

“The light behind her, and the dark before,” said the old pastor to himself as he walked home wearily enough. “It is like her life, poor child. And yet I am somehow not much afraid for her. It is for Frithiof I am afraid.”