IV.

"O Lord, lead me in a plain path."--_Isaiah 27:11._

The scene shifts to a land afar off toward the north, Norway--away up

into one of its mountain meadows. The landscape is a mixture of grandeur

and beauty. Hills upon hills, covered with pine and fir, stretch away

from the lowlands to the distant glacier-clad mountains, and patches of

green meadow gleam through the dark pine depths.

The clear blue sky changes to a faint haze in the hilly distance. The

gentle air is perfumed with the odor of the forest. A Sabbath stillness

broods over all. The sun has swung around to the northwest, and skims

along the horizon as if loth to leave such a sweet scene.

Evening was settling down on the Norwegian _saeter_, or summer herd

ground. Riding along the trail through the pines appeared a young man.

He was evidently not at home in the forest, as he peered anxiously

through every opening. His dress and bearing indicated that he was not a

woodsman nor a herder of cattle. Pausing on a knoll, he surveyed the

scene around him, and took off his hat that the evening breeze might

cool his face. Suddenly, there came echoing through the forest, from

hill to hill, the deep notes of the _lur_. The traveler listened, and

then urged his horse forward. Again and again the blast reverberated,

the notes dying in low echoes on the distant hills. From another rise,

the rider saw the girl who was making all this wild music. She was

standing on a high knoll. Peering down into the forest, she recognized

the traveler and welcomed him with an attempt at a tune on her long,

wooden trumpet.

"Good evening, Hansine," said he, as his horse scrambled up the path

close by, "your _lur_ made welcome music this evening."

"Good evening, Hr. Bogstad," said she, "are you not lost?"

"I was, nearly, until I heard you calling your cows. It is a long way up

here--but the air and the scenery are grand."

"Yes, do you think so? I don't know anything about what they call grand

scenery. I've always lived up here, and it's work, work all the

time--but those cows are slow coming home." She lifted her _lur_ to her

lips and once more made the woods ring.

Down at the foot of the hills, where the pines gave place to small,

grassy openings, stood a group of log huts, towards which the cows were

now seen wending.

"Come, Hr. Bogstad, I see the cows are coming. I must go down to meet

them."

They went down the hill together. The lowing cows came up to the

stables, and as the herd grew larger there was a deafening din. A girl

was standing in the doorway of one of the cabins, timidly watching the

noisy herd.

"Come, give the cows their salt," laughingly shouted Hansine to her.

"And get hooked all to pieces? Not much."

"You little coward. What good would you be on a _saeter_? What do you

think, Hr. Bogstad?"

As the girl caught sight of the new arrival she started and the color

came to her face. He went up to her. "How are you, Signe?" he said. "How

do you like life on a _saeter_?"

"Well, I hardly know," she said, seemingly quite embarrassed.

"Oh, I'll tell you," broke in the busy Hansine, as she came with a pail

full of salt. "She just goes around and looks at and talks about what

she calls the beauties of nature. That she likes; but as for milking, or

churning, or making cheese, well--"

Then they all laughed good naturedly.

Hansine was a large, strong girl, with round, pleasant features. She and

the cows were good friends. At the sound of the _lur_ every afternoon

the cows turned their grazing heads towards home, and, on their arrival,

each was given a pat and a handful of salt. Then they went quietly into

their stalls.

It was quite late that evening before the milk had been strained into

the wooden platters and placed in rows on the shelves in the milk house.

Hr. Bogstad and Signe had proffered their help, but they had been

ordered into the house and Signe was told to prepare the evening meal.

When Hansine came in, she found the table set with the cheese, milk,

butter, and black bread, while Signe and Hr. Bogstad sat by the large

fireplace watching a pot of boiling cream mush.

The object of Hr. Bogstad's visit was plain enough. He had been devoting

his attentions to Signe Dahl for some time, and now that he was home

from college on a vacation, it was natural that he should follow her

from the village up to the mountains.

Hr. Bogstad, though young, was one of the rich men of Nordal. He had

lately fallen heir to a large estate. In fact, Signe's parents, with a

great many more, were but tenants of young Hr. Henrik Bogstad; and

although it was considered a great honor to have the attentions of such

a promising young man--for, in fact, Henrik was quite exemplary in all

things, and had a good name in the neighborhood--still Signe Dahl did

not care for him, and was uneasy in his company. She would rather sail

with some of the fisher boys on the lake than be the object of envy by

her companions. But Signe's slim, graceful form, large blue eyes, clear,

dimpled face, light silken hair, combined with a native grace and

beauty, attracted not only the fisher boys but the "fine" Hr. Bogstad

also. She was now spending a few days with her cousin Hansine in the

mountains. Her limited knowledge of _saeter_ life was fast being

augmented under her cousin's supervision, notwithstanding Hansine's

remarks about her inabilities.

The cabin wherein the three were seated was of the rudest kind, but

everything was scrupulously clean. The blazing pine log cast a red light

over them as they sat at the table.

"So you see nothing grand in your surroundings?" asked Hr. Bogstad of

Hansine.

"How can I? I have never been far from home. Mountains and forests and

lakes are all I know."

"True," said he, "and we can see grandeur and beauty by contrast only."

"But here is Signe," remarked Hansine; "she has never seen much of the

world, yet you should hear her. I can never get her interested in my

cows. Her mind must have been far away when she dished up the mush, for

she has forgotten something."

"Oh, I beg pardon," exclaimed the forgetful girl. "Let me attend to it."

She went to the cupboard and brought out the sugar and a paper of ground

cinnamon, and sprinkled a layer of each over the plates of mush. Then

she pressed into the middle of each a lump of butter which soon melted

into a tiny yellow pond.

"I should like to hear some of these ideas of yours," remarked the

visitor to Signe, who had so far forgotten her manners as to be blowing

her spoonful of mush before dipping it into the butter.

"I wish I were an artist," said she, without seeming to notice his

remarks. "Ah, what pictures I would paint! I would make them so natural

that you could see the pine tops wave, and smell the breath of the woods

as you looked at them."

"You would put me in, standing on The Look-out blowing my _lur_,

wouldn't you?"

"Certainly."

"And I have no doubt that we could hear the echoes ringing over the

hills," continued Hansine, soberly.

"Never mind, you needn't make fun. Yes, Hr. Bogstad, I think we have

some grand natural scenes. I often climb up on the hills, and sit and

look over the pines and the shining lake down towards home. Then,

sometimes, I can see the ocean like a silver ribbon, lying on the

horizon. I sit up there and gaze and think, as Hansine says, nearly all

night. I seem to be under a spell. You know it doesn't get dark all

night now, and the air is so delicious. My thoughts go out 'Over the

high mountains,' as Bjornson says, and I want to be away to hear and see

what the world is and has to tell me. A kind of sweet loneliness comes

over me which I cannot explain."

Hr. Bogstad had finished his dish. He, too, was under a spell--the spell

of a soft, musical voice.

"Then the light in the summer," she continued. "How I have wished to go

north where the sun shines the whole twenty-four hours. Have you ever

seen the Midnight Sun, Hr. Bogstad?"

"No; but I have been thinking of taking a trip up there this summer, if

I can get some good company to go with me. Wouldn't you--"

It was then that Signe hurriedly pushed her chair away and said: "Thanks

for the food."

Next morning Signe was very busy. She washed the wooden milk basins,

scalded them with juniper tea, and then scoured them with sand. She

churned the butter and wanted to help with the cheese, but Hansine

thought that she was not paying enough attention to their visitor, so

she ordered her off to her lookout on the mountain. Hr. Bogstad would

help her up the steep places; besides, he could tell her the names of

the ferns and flowers, and answer the thousand and one questions which

she was always asking. So, of course, they had to go.

But Signe was very quiet, and Henrik said but little. He had come to the

conclusion that he truly loved this girl whose parents were among the

poorest of his tenants. None other of his acquaintances, even among the

higher class, charmed him as did Signe. He was old enough to marry, and

she was not too young. He knew full well that if he did marry her, many

of his friends would criticise; but Henrik had some of the Norseman

spirit of liberty, and he did not think that a girl's humble position

barred her from him. True, he had received very little encouragement

from her, though her parents had looked with favor upon him. And now he

was thinking of her cold indifference.

They sat down on a rocky bank, carpeted with gray reindeer moss.

They had been talking of his experiences at school. He knew her desire

to finish the college education cut short by a lack of means.

"Signe, I wish you would let me do you a favor."

She thought for a moment before she asked what it was.

"Let me help you attend college. You know I am able to,

besides--besides, some day you may learn to think as much of me as I do

of you, and then, dear Signe--"

Signe arose. "Hr. Bogstad," she said, "I wish you would not talk like

that. If you do, I shall go back to Hansine."

"Why, Signe, don't be offended. I am not jesting." He stood before her

in the path, and would have taken her hand, but she drew back.

"Signe, I have thought a great deal of you for a long time. You know we

have been boy and girl together. My absence at school has made no

difference in me. I wish you could think a little of me, Signe."

"Hr. Bogstad, I don't believe in deceiving anyone. I am sorry that you

have been thinking like that about me, because I cannot think of you

other than as a friend. Let us not talk about it."

If Henrik could not talk about that nearest his heart, he would remain

silent, which he did.

Signe was gathering some rare ferns and mosses when Hansine's _lur_

sounded through the hills. That was the signal for them, as well as the

cows, to come home.

Early the next morning Hansine's brother came up to the _saeter_ to take

home the week's accumulation of butter and cheese. Signe, perched on the

top of the two-wheeled cart, was also going home. Hr. Bogstad, mounted

on his horse, accompanied them a short distance, then rode off in

another direction.