As he walked down the sort of avenue of pianos and harmoniums in the inner shop, there came to his mind, why, he could not have told, words spoken to him long before by that customer who had left on his mind so lasting an impression, “Courage! the worst will pass.” Though he could not exactly believe the words, yet he clung to them with a sort of desperation. Also he happened to notice the clock, and practically adopted Sydney Smith’s wise maxim, “Take short views.” There were exactly two hours and a quarter before closing time; he could at any rate endure as long as that, and of the future he would not think. There were no customers in the shop, but he could hear voices in eager discussion, and he knew quite well what was the subject of their talk. Of course the instant he came into sight a dead silence ensued, and the little group, consisting of Foster, Darnell, one of the tuners, and the boy who made himself generally useful, dispersed at once, while in the ominous quiet Frithiof went to his usual place. The first few minutes were terrible; he sat down at his desk, took up his pen, and opened the order-book, making a feint of being actually employed, but conscious only of the dreadful silence and of the eyes that glanced curiously at him; again a burning flush passed over his face, just from the horror and shame of even being suspected of dishonesty. It was a relief to him when a customer entered, a man entirely ignorant of all that had passed, and only bent on securing the best seats to be had for Mr. Boniface’s concert on the following day. Carlo Donati, the celebrated baritone, was to sing, and as he had only appeared once before that season, except in opera, there was a great demand for tickets, which kept them pretty busy until at length the longed-for closing came; the other men lingered a little to discuss afresh the great event of the day, but Frithiof, who had been watching the hands of the clock with longing eyes, felt as if he could not have borne the atmosphere of the shop for another minute, and snatching up his hat made for the door. None of them said good-night to him; they were not intentionally unkind, but they were awkward, and they felt that the strange affair of the afternoon had made a great gulf between them and the culprit. However, Frithiof was past caring much for trifles, for after the first moment of intense relief, as he felt the cool evening air blowing on him, the sense of another trouble to be met had overpowered all else. He had got somehow to tell Sigrid of his disgrace, to bring the cloud which shadowed him into the peaceful home that had become so dear to him. Very slowly he walked through the noisy streets, very reluctantly crossed the great courtyard, and mounted flight after flight of stairs. At the threshold he hesitated, wondering whether it would be possible to shield them from the knowledge. He could hear Sigrid singing in the kitchen as she prepared the supper, and something told him that it would be impossible to conceal his trouble from her. With a sigh he opened the door into the sitting-room; it looked very bright and cheerful; Swanhild stood at the open window watering the flowers in the window-box, red and white geraniums and southernwood, grown from cuttings given by Cecil. She gave him her usual merry greeting.

“Come and look at my garden, Frithiof,” she said. “Doesn’t it look lovely?”

“Why, you are late,” said Sigrid, coming in with the cocoa, her face a little flushed with the fire, which was trying on that summer-day. Then, glancing at him, “How tired you look! Come, sit down and eat. I have got a German sausage that even Herr Sivertsen would not grumble at. The heat has tired you, and you will feel better after you have had something.”

He ate obediently, though the food almost choked him; Swanhild, fancying that he had one of his bad headaches, grew quiet, and afterwards was not surprised to find that he did not as usual get out his writing materials, but asked Sigrid to go out with him for a turn.

“You are too tired to try the translating?” she asked.

“Yes, I’ll try it later,” he said; “but let us have half an hour’s walk together now.”

She consented at once and went to put on her hat, well knowing that Frithiof never shirked his work without good reason; then leaving strict orders with Swanhild not to sit up after nine, they left her absorbed in English history, and went down into the cool, clear twilight. Some children were playing quietly in the courtyard; Sigrid stopped for a minute to speak to one of them.

“Is your father better this evening?” she asked.

“Yes, miss, and he’s a-goin’ back to work to-morrow,” replied the child, lifting a beaming face up to the friendly Norwegian lady, who had become a general favorite among her neighbors.

“That is one of the little Hallifields,” explained Sigrid, as they passed on. “The father, you know, is a tram-car conductor, and the work is just killing him by inches; some day you really must have a talk with him and just hear what terrible hours he has to keep. It makes me sick to think of it. How I wish you were in Parliament, Frithiof, and could do something to put down all the grievances that we are forever coming across!”

“There was once a time when at home we used to dream that I might even be a king’s minister,” said Frithiof.

Something in his voice made her sorry for her last speech; she knew that one of his fits of depression had seized him.

“So we did, and perhaps after all you may be. It was always, you know, through something very disagreeable that in the old stories the highest wish was attained. Remember the ‘Wild Swans.’ And even ‘Cinderella’ has that thought running through it. We are taught the same thing from our nursery days upward. And, you know, though there are some drawbacks, I think living like this, right among the people, is a splendid training. One can understand their troubles so much better.”

“I should have thought you had troubles enough of your own,” he said moodily, “without bothering yourself with other people’s.”

“But since our own troubles I have somehow cared more about them; I don’t feel afraid as I used to do of sick people, and people who have lost those belonging to them. I want always to get nearer to them.”

“Sigrid,” he said desperately, “can you bear a fresh trouble for yourself? I have bad news for you to-night.”

Her heart seemed to stop beating.

“Roy?” she asked breathlessly, her mind instinctively turning first to fears for his safety.

At any other time Frithiof would have guessed the truth through that tremulous, unguarded question, which had escaped her involuntarily. But he was too miserable to notice it then.

“Oh, no, Roy is still at Paris. They heard to-day that he could not be back in time for the concert. It is I who have brought this trouble on you. Though how it came about God only knows. Listen, and I’ll tell you exactly how everything happened.”

By this time they had reached one of the parks, and they sat down on a bench under the shade of a great elm-tree. Frithiof could not bear to look at Sigrid, could not endure to watch the effect of his words; he fixed his eyes on the smutty sheep that were feeding on the grass opposite him. Then very quietly and minutely he told exactly what had passed that afternoon.

“I am glad,” she exclaimed when he paused, “that Mr. Boniface was so kind. And yet, how can he think that of you?”

“You do not think it, then?” he asked, looking her full in the face.

“What! think that you took it in absence of mind? Think that it would be possible for you deliberately to take it out of the till and pin it in your own pocket! Why, of course not! In actual delirium, I suppose, a man might do anything, but you are as strong and well as any one else. Of course, you had nothing whatever to do with it, either consciously or unconsciously.”

“Yet the thing was somehow there, and the logical inference is, that I must have put it there,” he said, scanning her face with keen attention.

“I don’t care a fig for logical inference,” she cried, with a little vehement motion of her foot. “All I know is that you had nothing whatever to do with it. If I had to die for maintaining that, I would say it with my last breath.”

He caught her hand in his and held it fast.

“If you still believe in me, the worst is over,” he said. “With the rest of the world, of course, my character is gone, but there is no help for that.”

“But there must be help,” said Sigrid. “Some one else must be guilty. The other man in the shop must certainly have put it there.”

“For what purpose?” said Frithiof sadly. “Besides, how could he have done it without my knowledge?”

“I don’t know,” said Sigrid, beginning to perceive the difficulties of the case. “What sort of a man is he?”

“I used to dislike him at first, and he naturally disliked me because I was a foreigner. But latterly we have got on well enough. He is a very decent sort of fellow, and I don’t for a moment believe that he would steal.”

“One of you must have done it,” said Sigrid. “And as I certainly never could believe that you did it, I am forced to think the other man guilty.”

Frithiof was silent. If he did not agree with her, was he not bound to accept Mr. Boniface’s theory? The horrible mystery of the affair was almost more than he could endure; his past had been miserable enough, but he had never known anything equal to the misery of being innocent yet absolutely unable to prove this innocence. Sigrid, glancing at him anxiously, could see even in the dim twilight what a heavy look of trouble clouded his face, and resolutely turning from the puzzling question of how the mystery could be explained, she set herself to make as light of the whole affair as was possible.

“Look, Frithiof,” she said; “why should we waste time and strength in worrying over this? After all, what difference does it make to us in ourselves? Business hours must, of course, be disagreeable enough to you, but at home you must forget the disagreeables; at home you are my hero, unjustly accused and bearing the penalty of another’s crime.”

He smiled a little, touched by her eagerness of tone, and cheered, in spite of himself, by her perfect faith in him. Yet all through the night he tossed to and fro in sleepless misery, trying to find some possible explanation of the afternoon’s mystery, racking his brain to think of all that he had done or said since that unlucky hour when Sardoni had asked for change.

The next morning, as a natural consequence, he began the day with a dull, miserable headache; at breakfast he hardly spoke, and he set off for business looking so ill that Sigrid wondered whether he could possibly get through his work. It was certainly strange, she could not help thinking, that fate seemed so utterly against him, and that when at last his life was beginning to look brighter, he should again be the victim of another’s fault. And then, with a sort of comfort, there flashed into her mind an idea which almost reconciled her to his lot. What if these obstacles so hard to be surmounted, these difficulties that hemmed him in so persistently, were after all only the equivalent to the physical dangers and difficulties of the life of the old Vikings? Did it not, in truth, need greater courage and endurance for the nineteenth-century Frithiof to curb all his natural desires and instincts and toil at uncongenial work in order to pay off his father’s debts, than for the Frithiof of olden times to face all the dangers of the sea, and of foes spiritual and temporal who beset him when he went to win back the lost tribute money? It was, after all, a keen pleasure to the old Frithiof to fight with winds and waves; but it was a hard struggle to the modern Frithiof to stand behind a counter day after day. And then again, was it not less bitter for the Frithiof of the Saga to be suspected of sacrilege, than for Frithiof Falck to be suspected of the most petty and contemptible act of dishonesty?

She was right. Anything, however painful and difficult, would have been gladly encountered by poor Frithiof if it could have spared him that miserable return to his old place in Mr. Boniface’s shop. And that day’s prosaic work needed greater moral courage than any previous day of his life.

About half-past nine there arrived a telegram which did not mend matters. Mr. Boniface was seriously unwell, would not be in town that day, and could not be at St. James’s Hall that evening for the concert. Mr. Horner would take his place. Frithiof’s heart sank at this news; and when presently the fussy, bumptious, little man entered the shop the climax of his misery was reached. Mr. Horner read the telegram with a disturbed air.

“Dear! dear! seriously ill, I’m afraid, or he would at least make an effort to come to-night. But after all the annoyance of yesterday I am not surprised—no, not at all. Such a thing has never happened in his business before, ay, Mr. Foster?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said the foreman in a low voice, sorry in his heart for the young Norwegian, who could not avoid hearing every word.

“It was quite enough to make him ill. Such a disgraceful affair in a house of this class. For his own sake he does well to hush it up, though I intend to see that all proper precautions are taken; upon that, at any rate, I insist. If I had my own way there should have been none of this misplaced leniency. Here, William!” and he beckoned to the boy, who was irreverently flicking the bust of Mozart with a duster.

“Yes, sir,” said William, who, being out of the trouble himself, secretly rather enjoyed the commotion it had caused.

“Go at once to Smith, the ironmonger, and order him to send some one round to fix a spring bell on a till. Do you understand?”

“Quite, sir,” replied William, unable to resist glancing across the counter.

Frithiof went on arranging some music that had just arrived, but he flushed deeply, and Mr. Horner, glad to have found a vulnerable point of attack, did not scruple to make the most of his opportunity. Never, surely, did ironmonger do his work so slowly! Never, surely, did an employer give so much of his valuable time to directing exactly what was to be done, and superintending an affair about which he knew nothing. But the fixing of that detestable bell gave Mr. Horner a capitol excuse for being in the shop at Frithiof’s elbow, and every word and look conveyed such insulting suspicion of the Norwegian that honest old Foster began to feel angry.

“Why should I mind this vulgar brute?” thought Frithiof, as he forced himself to go on with his work with the air of quiet determination which Mr. Horner detested. But all the same he did care, and it was the very vulgarity of the attack that made him inwardly wince. His headache grew worse and worse, while in maddening monotony came the sounds of piano tuning from the inner shop, hammering and bell-ringing at the till close by, and covert insults and innuendoes from the grating voice of James Horner. How much an employer can do for those in his shop, how close and cordial the relation may be, he had learnt from his intercourse with Mr. Boniface. He now learnt the opposite truth, that no position affords such constant opportunities for petty tyranny if the head of the firm happens to be mean or prejudiced. The miserable hours dragged on somehow, and at last, late in the afternoon, Foster came up to him with a message.

“Mr. Horner wishes to speak to you,” he said; “I will take your place here.” Then, lowering his voice cautiously, “It’s my opinion, Mr. Falck, that he is trying to goad you into resigning, or into an impertinent answer which would be sufficient to cause your dismissal.”

“Thank you for the warning,” said Frithiof gratefully, and a little encouraged by the mere fact that the foreman cared enough for him to speak in such a way, he went to the private room, determined to be on his guard and not to let pride or anger get the better of his dignity.

Mr. Horner replied to his knock, but did not glance round as he entered the room.

“You wished to speak to me, sir?” asked Frithiof.

“Yes, when I have finished this letter. You can wait,” said Mr. Horner ungraciously.

He waited quietly, thinking to himself how different was the manner both of Mr. Boniface and of his son, who were always as courteous to their employees as to their customers, and would have thought themselves as little justified in using such a tone to one of the men as of employing the slave-whip.

Mr. Horner, flattering himself that he was producing an impression and emphasizing the difference between their respective positions, finished his letter, signed his name with a flourish characteristic of his opinion of himself, then swung round his chair and glanced at Frithiof.

“Mr. Boniface left no instructions as to whether you were to attend as usual at St. James’s Hall to-night,” he began. “But since no one else is used to the work I suppose there is no help for it.”

He paused, apparently expecting some rejoinder, but Frithiof merely stood there politely attentive.

“Since you know the work, and are used to it, you had better attend as usual, for I should be vexed if any hitch should occur in the arrangements. But understand, pray, that I strongly disapprove of your remaining in our employ at all, and that it is only out of necessity that I submit to it, for I consider you unfit to mix with respectable people.”

Whatever the Norwegian felt, he managed to preserve a perfectly unmoved aspect. Mr. Horner, who wanted to stir him into indignant expostulation, was sorely disappointed that his remarks fell so flat.

“I see you intend to brazen it out,” he said crushingly. “But you don’t deceive me. You may leave the room, and take good care that all the arrangements to-night are properly carried out.”

“Yes, sir,” said Frithiof, with the quietness of one who knows that he remains master of the situation. But afterward, when he was once more in the shop, the insults returned to his mind with full force, and lay rankling there for many a day to come. Owing to the concert, his release came a little sooner than usual, and it was not much after seven when Sigrid heard him at the door. His face frightened her; it looked so worn and harassed.

“You will have time for some supper?” she asked pleadingly.

“No,” he said, passing by her quickly, “I am not hungry, and must change my clothes and be off again.”

“He might fancy some coffee,” said Sigrid to herself. “Quick, Swanhild, run and get it ready while I boil the water. There is nothing like strong cafÉ noir when one is tired out.”

Perhaps it did him some good; and the glimpse of his home certainly cheered him; yet, nevertheless, he was almost ready that night to give up everything in despair.

Physical exhaustion had dulled the glow of inner comfort that had come to him on the previous day. In his miserable depression all his old doubts assailed him once more. Was there any rule of justice after all? Was there anything in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, but cruel lust of power, and an absolute indifference to suffering? His old hatred against those who succeeded once more filled his heart, and though at one time he had felt curious to see Donati, and had heard all that Cecil had to say in favor of the Italian’s courage and unselfishness, yet now, in his bitterness of soul, he began to hate the man merely because of his popularity.

“I detest these conceited, set-up idols of the public,” he thought to himself. “When all men speak well of a fellow it is time to suspect him. His goodness and all the rest of it is probably all calculation—a sort of advertisement!”

The architects of most English music-halls have scant regard for the comfort of the artistes. It often used to strike Frithiof as a strange thing that in the Albert Hall, singers, whose health and strength were of priceless value, had to wait about in draughty, sloping passages, on uncomfortable chairs, while at St. James’s Hall they had only the option of marching up and down a cold, stone staircase to the cloak-room between every song, or of sitting in the dingy little den opening on to the platform steps—a den which resembles a family pew in a meetinghouse. Here, sitting face to face on hard benches, were ranged to-night many of the first singers of the day. There was Sardoni, the good-natured English tenor and composer. There was Mme. Sardoni-Borelli, with her noble and striking face and manner; besides a host of other celebrities, all the more dear to the audience because for years and years they had been giving their very best to the nation. But Carlo Donati had not yet arrived, and Mr. Horner kept glancing anxiously through the glass doors on to the staircase in hopes of catching sight of the great baritone. Frithiof lived through it all like a man in a dream, watched a young English tenor who was to make his first appearance that night, saw him walking to and fro in a tremendous state of nervousness, heard the poor fellow sing badly enough, and watched him plunge down the steps again amid the very faint applause of the audience. Next came the turn of Mme. Sardoni-Borelli. Her husband handed her the song she was to sing, she gave some directions to the accompanist as to the key in which she wanted it played, and mounted the platform with a composed dignity that contrasted curiously with the manner of the dÉbutant who had preceded her. Mr. Horner turned to Frithiof at that moment.

“Go and see whether Signor Donati has come,” he said. “His song is next on the programme.”

“Ah,” said Sardoni, with a smile, “he is such a tremendous fellow for home, he never comes a moment too soon, and at the theater often runs it even closer than this. He is the quickest dresser I ever knew, though, and is never behind time.”

Frithiof made his way to the cloak room, and, as he walked through the narrow room leading to it, he could distinctly hear the words of some one within. The voice seemed familiar to him.

“Badly received? Well, you only failed because of nervousness. In your second song you will be more used to things, and you will see, it will go much better.”

“But you surely can never have had the same difficulty to struggle with?” said the young tenor, who, with a very downcast face, stood talking to the newly arrived baritone.

“Never!” exclaimed the other, with a laugh which rang through the room, “Ask Sardoni! He’ll tell you of my first appearance.”

Then, as Frithiof gave his message, the speaker turned round and revealed to the Norwegian that face which had fascinated him so strangely just before his illness—a face not only beautiful in outline and coloring, but full of an undefined charm, which made all theories as to the conceit and objectionableness of successful men fall to the ground.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing in reply; “I will come down at once.” Then, turning again to the dÉbutant with a smile, “You see, through failing to get that encore that you ought to have deserved, you have nearly made me behind time. Never mind, you will get a very hearty one in the second part to make up. Come down with me, wont you. It is far better fun in that family pew below than up here. Clinton Cleve is here, isn’t he? Have you been introduced to him?”

The young man replied in the negative; Frithiof perceived that the idea had cheered him up wonderfully, and knew that a word from the veteran tenor might be of great use to a beginner.

“I’ll introduce you,” said Donati as they went down the stairs. Frithiof held open the swing-doors for them and watched with no small curiosity the greeting between Donati and the other artistes. His manner was so very simple that it was hard to realize that he was indeed the man about whom all Europe was raving; but nevertheless he had somehow brought a sort of new atmosphere into the place, and even Mr. Horner seemed conscious of this, for he was less fidgety and fussy than usual, and even seemed willing to keep in the background. There was a hearty greeting to Madame Sardoni as she came down the steps and a brisk little conversation in the interval; then, having wrapped her shawl about her again, talking brightly all the while, Donati picked up his music and stepped on to the platform. It was only then that Frithiof realized how great was his popularity, for he was greeted rapturously, and certainly he well merited the thunder of applause which broke forth again at the close of a song which had been given with unrivaled delicacy of expression and with all the charm of his wonderful voice. For the time Frithiof forgot everything; he was carried far away from all consciousness of disgrace and wretchedness, far away from all recollection of Mr. Horner’s presence; he could only look in astonishment and admiration at the singer, who stood laughing and talking with Sardoni, periodically mounting the platform to bow his acknowledgments to the audience, who still kept up their storm of applause. When at length he had convinced them that he did not intend to sing again, he began to talk to Clinton Cleve, and soon had won for the young dÉbutant a few minutes’ kindly talk with the good-natured old singer who, though he had been the idol of the British public for many years, had not forgotten the severe ordeal of a first appearance. The young tenor brightened visibly, and when he sang again acquitted himself so well that he won the encore which Donati had prophesied.

All went smoothly until, early in the second part, the Italian baritone was to sing a song with violin obligato. By some unlucky accident Frithiof forgot to place the music-stand for the violinist; and perceiving this as soon as they were on the platform, Donati himself brought it forward and put it in position. It was but a trifling occurrence, but quite sufficient to rouse Mr. Horner. When the singer returned he apologized to him profusely, and turned upon Frithiof with a rebuke, the tone of which made Donati’s eyes flash.

“Pray do not make so much of it,” he said, with a touch of dignity in his manner. Then returning again from one of his journeys to the platform, and noticing the expression of Frithiof’s face, he paused to speak to him for a moment before returning to give the encore that was emphatically demanded. It was not so much what he said as his manner of saying it that caused Frithiof’s face to brighten, and brought a frown to James Horner’s brow.

“It is merely my duty to enlighten Signor Donati,” said the little man to himself—“merely my duty!”