Although it was the middle of August, a bitterly cold wind blew round the dreary little posting station of Hjerkin, on the Dovrefield, and at the very time when Frithiof lay dying in the intolerable heat of London, Sigrid, shivering with cold, paced drearily along the bleak mountain road with her aunt. They had come to the Dovrefield a fortnight before for the summer holiday, but the weather had been unfavorable, and away from home, with nothing very particular to occupy their time, Fru GrÖnvold and Sigrid seemed to jar upon each other more than ever. Apparently the subject they were discussing was not at all to the girl’s taste, for as they walked along there were two ominous little depressions in her forehead, nor did her black fur hat entirely account for the shadow that overspread her face.

“Yes,” said Fru GrÖnvold emphatically, “I am sorry to have to say such a thing of you, Sigrid, but it really seems to me that you are playing the part of the dog in the manger. You profess absolute indifference to every man you meet, yet you go on absorbing attention, and standing in Karen’s light, in a way which I assure you is very trying to me.”

Sigrid’s cheek flamed.

“I have done nothing to justify you in saying such a thing,” she said angrily.

“What!” cried Fru GrÖnvold. “Did not that Swedish botanist talk to you incessantly? Does not the English officer follow you about whenever he has the opportunity?”

“The botanist talked because we had a subject in common,” replied Sigrid. “And probably the officer prefers talking to me because my English is more fluent than Karen’s.”

“And that I suppose was the reason that you must be the one to teach him the spring dans? And the one to sing him the ‘Bridal Song of the Hardanger’?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sigrid, with an impatient little stamp of the foot, “am I to be forever thinking of this wretched scheming and match-making? Can I not even try to amuse a middle-aged Englishman who is disappointed of his reindeer, and finds himself stranded in a dreary little inn with a handful of foreigners? I have only been courteous to him—nothing more; and if I like talking to him it is merely because he comes from England.”

“I don’t wish to be hard on you,” said Fru GrÖnvold, “but naturally I have the feelings of a mother, and do not like to see Karen eclipsed. I accuse you of nothing worse, my dear, than a slight forwardness—a little deficiency in tact. There is no occasion for anger on your part.”

Sigrid bit her lip hard to keep back the retort that she longed to make, and they walked in silence toward the little cluster of wooden buildings on the hill-side, the lowest of which contained the bedrooms, while further up the hill the kitchen and dining-room stood on one side of the open courtyard, and on the other the prettily arranged public sitting-room. In warm weather Hjerkin is a little paradise, but on this windy day, under a leaden sky, it seemed the most depressing place on earth.

“I shall go in and write to Frithiof,” said Sigrid, at length. And escaping gladly from Fru GrÖnvold, she ran up to her room.

“Here we are at Hjerkin,” she wrote, “for a month, and it is more desolate than I can describe to you, uncle and Oscar out shooting all day long, and scarcely a soul to speak to, for most of the English have been driven away by the bad weather, and two girls from Stockholm who were here for their health are leaving this afternoon, unable to bear the dullness any longer. If something doesn’t happen soon I think I shall grow desperate. But surely something will happen. We can’t be meant to go on in this wretched way, apart from each other. I am disappointed that you think there is no chance of any opening for me in London. If it were not for Swanhild I think I should try for work—any sort of work except teaching—at Christiania. But I can’t bear to leave her, and uncle would object to my trying for anything of the sort in Bergen. I can’t help thinking of the old times when we were children, and of the summer holidays then. Don’t you remember when we had the island all to ourselves, and used to rush down the fir-hill, and frighten poor old Gro?”

She stopped writing because the thought of those past days had blinded her with tears, and because the longing for her father’s presence had overwhelmed her; they had been so much to each other that there was not an hour in the day when she did not miss him. The dreary wind howling and whistling round the little wooden house seemed to harmonize only too well with her sadness, and when the unwelcome supper-bell began to ring she wrapped her shawl about her, and climbed the steep path to the dining-room, slowly and reluctantly, with a look on her pale face which it was sad to see in one so young.

Swanhild came dancing to meet her.

“Major Brown has got us such beautiful trout for supper, Sigrid, and uncle says I may go out fishing, too, some day. And you’ll come with us, wont you?”

“You had better take Karen,” said Sigrid listlessly. “You know I never did care much for fishing. You shall catch them and I will eat them,” she added, with a dreary little smile. And throughout supper she hardly spoke, and at the first opportunity slipped away quietly, only, however, to be pursued by Swanhild.

“What is the matter?” said the child, slipping her arm round her sister’s waist. “Are you not coming to the sitting-room?”

“No,” said Sigrid, “I am tired, and it is so cold in there. I am going into the kitchen to buy some stamps. Frithiof’s letter ought to go to-morrow.”

As she spoke she opened the door of the roomy old kitchen, which is the pride of Hjerkin. Its three windows were shaded by snowy muslin curtains; its spotless floor was strewn with juniper; the walls, painted a peacock-blue, were hung with bright dish-covers, warming-pans, quaint old bellows and kitchen implements. There was a tall old clock in a black and gold case, a pretty corner cupboard in shaded brown, and a huge, old-fashioned cabinet with cunning little drawers and nooks and corners, all painted in red and blue and green, with an amount of gilding which gave it quite an Eastern look.

“Ah, how cozy the fire looks!” cried Swanhild, crossing over to the curious old grate which filled the whole of one corner of the room, and which certainly did look very tempting with its bright copper kettles and saucepans all glowing in the ruddy light.

“Bless your heart,” said the kind old landlady, “sit down and warm yourself.”

And one of the white-sleeved servant-girls brought a little chair which stood by a long wooden settle, and put it close by the fire for the child, and Sigrid, her purchase made, joined the little group, and sat silently warming her hands, finding a sort of comfort in the mere physical heat, and in the relief of being away from her aunt. The landlady told Swanhild stories, and Sigrid listened dreamily, letting her thoughts wander off now and then to Frithiof, or back into the far past, or away into the future which looked so dreary. Still the kindness of these people, and the interest and novelty of her glimpse into a different sort of life, warmed her heart and cheered her a little. Sitting there in the firelight she felt more at home than she had done for many months.

“Come, Swanhild,” she said at last reluctantly, “it is ten o’clock, and time you were in bed.”

And thanking the landlady for her kindness, the two sisters crossed over the courtyard to the sitting-room, where Fru GrÖnvold was watching the progress of a rubber in which Karen was Major Brown’s partner, and had just incurred his wrath by revoking.

“Where in the world have you been?” said Fru GrÖnvold, knitting vehemently. “We couldn’t think what had become of you both.”

“I went to the kitchen to get some stamps,” said Sigrid coldly. She always resented her aunt’s questioning.

“And it was so lovely and warm in there,” said Swanhild gayly, “and Fru Hjerkin has been telling me such beautiful stories about the Trolds. Her mother really saw one, do you know.”

After this a cold good-night was exchanged, and Fru GrÖnvold’s brow grew darker still when Major Brown called out in his hearty way:

“What, going so early, Miss Falck? We have missed you sadly to-night.” Then, as she said something about the English mail, “Yes, yes, quite right. And I ought to be writing home, too, instead of playing.”

“That means that he will not have another rubber,” thought Sigrid, as she hurried down the hill to the dÉpendence, “and I shall be blamed for it.”

She fell into a state of blank depression, and long after Swanhild was fast asleep she sat struggling with the English letter, which, do what she would, refused to have a cheerful tone forced into it.

“The only comfort is,” she thought, “that the worst has happened to us; what comes now must be for the better. How the wind is raging round the house and shrieking at the windows! And, oh, how dreary and wretched this life is!”

And in very low spirits she blew out the candle, and lay down to sleep as best she might in a bed which shook beneath her in the gale.

With much that was noble in Sigrid’s nature there was interwoven a certain fault of which she herself was keenly conscious. She could love a few with the most ardent and devoted love, but her sympathies were not wide; to the vast majority of those she met she was absolutely indifferent, and though naturally bright and courteous and desirous of giving pleasure, yet she was too deeply reserved to depend at all on the outer circle of friends; she liked them well enough, but it would not greatly have troubled her had she never met them again. Very few had the power to call out all the depths of tenderness, all the womanly sweetness which really characterized her, while a great many repelled her, and called out the harder side of her nature.

It was thus with Fru GrÖnvold. To her aunt, Sigrid was like an icicle, and her hatred of the little schemes and hopes and anxieties which filled Fru GrÖnvold’s mind blinded her to much that was worthy of all admiration. However, like all the Falcks, Sigrid was conscientious, and she had been struggling on through the spring and summer, making spasmodic efforts to overcome her strong dislike to one who in the main was kind to her, and the very fact that she had tried made her now more conscious of her failure.

“My life is slipping by,” she thought to herself, “and somehow I am not making the most of it. I am harder and colder than before all this trouble came; I was a mere fine-weather character, and the storm was too much for me. If I go on hating auntie perhaps I shall infect Swanhild, and make her turn into just such another narrow-hearted woman. Oh, why does one have to live with people that rub one just the wrong way?”

She fell asleep before she had solved this problem, but woke early and with a restless craving, which she could not have explained, dressed hastily, put on all the wraps that she possessed, and went out into the fresh morning air.

“I have got to put up with this life,” she said to herself, “and I shall just walk off this stupid discontented mood. What can’t be cured must be endured. Oh, how beautiful it is out all alone in the early morning! I am glad the wind is quite gone down, it has just cooled the air so that to breathe it is like drinking iced water. After all, one can’t talk of merely enduring life when there is all this left to one.”

Leaving the steep high-road, she struck off to the left, intent on gaining the top of HjerkinshÖ. Not a house was in sight, not a trace of any living being; she walked on rapidly, for, although the long upward slope was in parts fairly steep, the gray lichen with which the ground was thickly covered was so springy and delicious to walk on that she felt no fatigue, the refreshing little scrunch that it made beneath her feet seemed in itself to invigorate her. By the time she reached the top of the hill she was glowing with exercise, and was glad to sit down and rest by the cairn of stones. All around her lay one great undulating sweep of gray country, warmed by the bright sunlight of the summer morning, and relieved here and there by the purple shadow of some cloud. Beyond, there rose tier above tier of snowy peaks, Snehaetten standing out the most nobly of all, and some eighty attendant peaks ranged round the horizon line as though they were courtiers in attendance on the monarch of the district. At first Sigrid was so taken up by this wonderful panorama that she had not a thought for anything beyond it, but after awhile the strange stillness roused her; for the first time in her life she had come into absolute silence, and what made the silence was the infinite space.

“If one could always be in a peace like this,” she thought, “surely life would be beautiful then! If one could get out of all the littleness and narrowness of one’s own heart, and be silent and quiet from all the worries and vexations and dislikes of life! Perhaps it was the longing for this that made women go into convents; some go still into places where they never speak. That would never suit me; out of sheer perversity I should want to talk directly. But if one could always have a great wide open space like this that one could go into when one began to get cross—”

But there all definite thought was suddenly broken, because nature and her own need had torn down a veil, and there rushed into her consciousness a perception of an infinite calm, into which all might at any moment retire. The sense of that Presence which had so clearly dawned on her on the night of her father’s death returned to her now more vividly, and for the first time in her life she was absolutely at rest.

After a time she rose and walked quietly home, full of an eager hopefulness, to begin what she rightly felt would be a new life. She stopped to pick a lovely handful of flowers for her aunt; she smiled at the thought of the annoyance she had felt on the previous night about such a trifle, and went forward almost gayly to meet the old troubles which but a few hours before had seemed intolerable, but now looked slight and easy.

Poor Sigrid! she had yet to learn that with fresh strength comes harder fighting in the battle of life, and that of those to whom much is given much will be required.

They were very cheerful that morning at breakfast; Fru GrÖnvold seemed pleased with the flowers, and everything went smoothly. Afterward, when they were standing in a little group outside the door, she even passed her arm within Sigrid’s quite tenderly, and talked in the most amiable way imaginable of the excursion which was being planned to Kongswold.

“Look! look!” cried Swanhild merrily, “here are some travelers. Two carioles and a stolkjaerre coming up the hill. Oh! I hope they will be nice, and that they will stay here.”

The arrival caused quite a little bustle of excitement, and many speculations were made as to the relationship of the two sportsmen and the two ladies in the stolkjaerre. Major Brown came forward to do the honors of the place, as the landlord happened not to be at hand.

“Is there any one of the name of Falck here?” asked one of the travelers as he dismounted from his cariole. “We were at Dombaas last night and promised to bring this on; we told the landlord that we meant to sleep at Fokstuen, but he said there was no quicker way of delivery. Seems a strange mode of delivering telegrams, doesn’t it?”

“Why, Miss Falck, I see it is for you,” said Major Brown, glancing at the direction.

She stepped hastily forward to take it from him with flushed cheeks and trembling hands; it seemed an eternity before she had torn it open, and the few words within half paralyzed her.

For a moment all seemed to stand still, then she became conscious of the voices around.

“Oh, we were almost blown away at Fokstuen,” said one.

“But such flatbrod as they make there!” said another, “we brought away quite a tinful.”

“Nothing wrong, my dear, I hope?” said Fru GrÖnvold. “Child, child, what is it? Let me read.”

Then came an almost irresistible impulse to burst into a flood of tears, checked only by the presence of so many strangers, and by the necessity of explaining to her aunt.

“It is in English,” she said in a trembling voice. “From Mr. Boniface. It says only, ‘Frithiof dangerously ill. Come.’”

“Poor child! you shall go at once,” said Fru GrÖnvold. “What can be wrong with Frithiof? Dangerously ill! See, it was sent from London yesterday. You shall not lose a moment, my dear. Here is your uncle, I’ll tell him everything, and do you go and pack what things you need.”

The girl obeyed; it seemed as if when once she had moved she was capable only of the one fear—the terrible fear lest she should miss the English steamer. Already it was far too late to think of catching the Thursday steamer from Christiania to London, but she must strain every nerve to catch the next one. Like one in a frightful dream she hastily packed, while Swanhild ran to and fro on messages, her tears falling fast, for she, poor little soul, would be left behind, since it was impossible that she should be taken to London lodgings, where, for aught they knew, Frithiof might be laid up with some infectious illness. In all her terrible anxiety Sigrid felt for the child, and with a keen pang remembered that she had not set her the best of examples, and that all her plans for a new life, and for greater sympathy with her aunt, were now at an end. The old life with all its lost opportunities was over—it was over, and she rightly felt that she had failed.

“I have murmured and rebelled,” she thought to herself, “and now God is going to take from me even a chance of making up for it. Oh, how hard it is to try too late!”

“We have been looking out the routes, dear,” said Fru GrÖnvold, coming into the room, “and the best way will be for you to try for the Friday afternoon boat from Christiania; it generally gets to Hull a little before the Saturday one from Bergen, your uncle says.”

“When can I start?” asked Sigrid eagerly.

“You must start almost at once for Lille-elvedal; it will be a terribly tiring drive for you, I’m afraid—eighty-four kilometers and a rough road. But still there is time to do it, which is the great thing. At Lille-elvedal you will take the night train to Christiania; it is a quick one, and will get you there in ten hours, quite in time to catch the afternoon boat, you see. Your uncle will take you and see you into the train, and if you like we can telegraph to some friend to meet you at the Christiania station: the worst of it is, I fear most people are away just now.”

“Oh, I shall not want any one,” said Sigrid. “If only I can catch the steamer nothing matters.”

“And do not worry more than you can help,” said Fru GrÖnvold. “Who knows? You may find him much better.”

“They would not have sent unless they feared—” Sigrid broke off abruptly, unable to finish her sentence. And then with a few incoherent words she clung to her aunt, asking her forgiveness for having annoyed her so often, and thanking her for all her kindness. And Fru GrÖnvold, whose conscience also pricked her, kissed the girl, and cried over her, and was goodness itself.

Then came the wrench of parting with poor Swanhild, who broke down altogether, and had to be left in the desolate little bedroom sobbing her heart out, while Sigrid went downstairs with her aunt, bade a hurried farewell to Major Brown, Oscar, and Karen; then, with a pale, tearless face she climbed into the stolkjaerre, and was driven slowly away in the direction of Dalen.

Her uncle talked kindly, speculating much as to the cause of Frithiof’s illness, and she answered as guardedly as she could, all the time feeling convinced that somehow Blanche Morgan was at the bottom of it all. Were they never to come to the end of the cruel mischief wrought by one selfish woman’s vanity? One thing was clear to her; if Frithiof was spared to them she could never leave him again, and the thought of a possible exile from Norway made her look back lingeringly at the scenes she was leaving. Snehaetten’s lofty peaks still appeared in the distance, rising white and shining into the clear blue sky; what ages it seemed since she had watched it from HjerkinshÖ in the wonderful stillness which had preceded this great storm! Below her, to the right, lay a lovely, smiling valley with birch and fir-trees, and beyond were round-topped mountains, with here and there patches of snow gleaming out of black, rocky clefts.

But soon all thought of her present surroundings was crowded out by the one absorbing anxiety, and all the more because of her father’s recent death hope seemed to die within her, and something seemed to tell her that this hurried journey would be in vain. Each time the grisly fear clutched at her heart, the slowness of their progress drove her almost frantic, and the easy-going people at Dalen, who leisurely fetched a horse which proved to be lame, and then, after much remonstrance, leisurely fetched another, tried her patience almost beyond bearing. With her own hands she helped to harness the fresh pony, and at the dreary little station of Kroghaugen, where all seemed as quiet as the grave, she not only made the people bestir themselves, but on hearing that it was necessary to make some sort of a meal there, fetched the fagots herself to relight the fire, and never rested till all that the place would afford was set before Herr GrÖnvold.

At length the final change had been made. Ryhaugen was passed, and they drove on as rapidly as might be for the last stage of their journey. At any other time the beautiful fir forest through which they were passing would have delighted her, and the silvery river in the valley below, with its many windings and its musical ripple, would have made her long to stay. Now she scarcely saw them; and when, in the heart of the forest, the skydsgut declared that his horse must rest for half an hour, she was in despair.

“But there is plenty of time, dear,” said her uncle kindly. “Come and take a turn with me; it will rest you.”

She paced to and fro with him, trying to conquer the frenzy of impatience which threatened to overmaster her.

“See,” he said at length, as they sat down to rest on one of the moss-covered boulders, “I will give you now, while we are quiet and alone, the money for your passage. Here is a check for fifty pounds, you will have time to get it cashed in Christiania”; then as she protested that it was far too much, “No, no; you will need it all in England. It may prove a long illness; and, in any case,” he added awkwardly, “there must be expenses.”

Sigrid, with a horrible choking in her throat, thanked him for his help, but that “in any case” rang in her ears all through the drive, all through the waiting at the hotel at Lille-elvedal, all through that weary journey in the train.

Yet it was not until she stood on board the Angelo that tears came to her relief. A great crowd had collected on the quays, for a number of emigrants were crossing over to England en route for America. Sigrid, standing there all alone, watched many a parting, saw strong men step on to the deck sobbing like children, saw women weeping as though their hearts would break. And when the crowd of those left behind on the quay began to sing the songs of the country, great drops gathered in her eyes and slowly fell. They sung with subdued voices. “For Norge, Kjaempers Foderland,” and “Det Norske Flagg.” Last of all, as the great steamer moved off, they sung, with a depth of pathos which touched even the unconcerned foreigners on board, “Ja, vi elsker dette landet.”

The bustle and confusion on the steamer, the busy sailors, the weeping emigrants, the black mass of people on shore waving their hats and handkerchiefs, some sobbing, some singing to cheer the travelers, and behind the beautiful city of Christiania with its spires and towers, all this had to Sigrid the strangest feeling of unreality; yet it was a scene that no one present could ever forget. Bravely the friends on shore sung out, their voices bridging over the widening waters of the fjord, the sweet air well suiting the fervor of the words:

But there the distance became too great for words to traverse it, only the wild beauty of the music floated after the outward-bound vessel, and many a man strained his ears to listen to voices which should never again be heard by him on earth, and many a woman hid her face and sobbed with passionate grief.