Herr Falck lived in one of the pretty, unpretentious houses in
Kalvedalen which are chiefly owned by the rich merchants of Bergen. The
house stood on the right-hand side of the road, surrounded by a pretty
little garden; it was painted a light-brown color, and, like most Bergen
houses, it was built of wood. In the windows one could see flowers, and
beyond them white muslin curtains, for æstheticism had not yet
penetrated to Norway. The dark-tiled roof was outlined against a wooded
hill rising immediately behind, with here and there gray rocks peeping
through the summer green of the trees, while in front the chief windows
looked on to a pretty terrace with carefully kept flower-beds, then down
the wooded hill-side to the lake below—the Lungegaardsvand with purple
and gray heights on the further shore, and on one side a break in the
chain of mountains and a lovely stretch of open country. To the extreme
left was the giant Ulriken, sometimes shining and glistening, sometimes
frowning and dark, but always beautiful; while to the right you caught a
glimpse of Bergen with its quaint cathedral tower, and away in the
distance the fjord like a shining silver band in the sun.
As Frithiof walked along the grassy terrace he could hear sounds of
music floating from the house; some one was playing a most inspiriting
waltz, and as soon as he had reached the open French window of his
father’s study a quaint pair of dancers became visible. A slim little
girl of ten years old, with very short petticoats, and very long golden
hair braided into a pigtail, held by the front paws a fine Esquimaux
dog, who seemed quite to enter into the fun and danced and capered most
cleverly, obediently keeping his long pointed nose over his partner’s
shoulder. The effect was so comical that Frithiof stood laughingly by to
watch the performance for fully half a minute, then, unable to resist
his own desire to dance, he unceremoniously called Lillo the dog away
and whirled off little Swanhild in the rapid waltz which Norwegians
delight in. The languid grace of a London ball-room would have had no
charms for him; his dancing was full of fire and impetuosity, and
Swanhild, too, danced very well; it had come to them both as naturally
as breathing.
“This is better than Lillo,” admitted the child. “Somehow he’s so
dreadful heavy to get round. Have the English people come? What are they
like?”
“Oh, they’re middling,” said Frithiof, “all except the niece, and she is
charming.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Prettier than any one you ever saw in your life.”
“Not prettier than Sigrid?” said the little sister confidently.
“Wait till you see,” said Frithiof. “She is a brunette and perfectly
lovely. There now!” as the music ceased, “Sigrid has felt her left ear
burning, and knows that we are speaking evil of her. Let us come to
confess.”
With his arms still round the child he entered the pretty bright-looking
room to the right. Sigrid was still at the piano, but she had heard his
voice and had turned round with eager expectation in her face. The
brother and sister were very much alike; each had the same well-cut
Greek features, but Frithiof’s face was broader and stronger, and you
could tell at a glance that he was the more intellectual of the two. On
the other hand, Sigrid possessed a delightful fund of quiet
common-sense, and her judgment was seldom at fault, while, like most
Norwegian girls, she had a most charmingly simple manner, and an
unaffected light-heartedness which it did one good to see.
“Well! what news?” she exclaimed. “Have they come all right? Are they
nice?”
“Nice is not the word! charming! beautiful! To-morrow you will see if I
have spoken too strongly.”
“He says she is even prettier than you, Sigrid,” said Swanhild
mischievously. “Prettier than any one we ever saw!”
“She? Which of them?”
“Miss Blanche Morgan, the daughter of the head of the firm, you know.”
“And the other one?”
“I hardly know. I didn’t look at her much; the others all seemed to me
much like ordinary English tourists. But she!—Well, you will see
to-morrow.”
“How I wish they were coming to-night! you make me quite curious. And
father seems so excited about their coming. I have not seen him so much
pleased about anything for a long time.”
“Is he at home?”
“No, he went for a walk; his head was bad again. That is the only thing
that troubles me about him, his headaches seem to have become almost
chronic this last year.”
A shade came over her bright face, and Frithiof too, looked grave.
“He works very much too hard,” he said, “but as soon as I come of age
and am taken into partnership he will be more free to take a thorough
rest. At present I might just as well be in Germany as far as work goes,
for he will hardly let me do anything to help him.”
“Here he comes, here he comes!” cried Swanhild, who had wandered away to
the window, and with one accord they all ran out to meet the head of the
house, Lillo bounding on in front and springing up at his master with a
loving greeting.
Herr Falck was a very pleasant-looking man of about fifty; he had the
same well-chiseled features as Frithiof, the same broad forehead,
clearly marked, level brows, and flexible lips, but his eyes had more of
gray and less of blue in them, and a practiced observer would have
detected in their keen glance an anxiety which could not wholly disguise
itself. His hair and whiskers were iron-gray, and he was an inch or two
shorter than his son. They all stood talking together at the door, the
English visitors still forming the staple of conversation, and the
anxiety giving place to eager hope in Herr Falck’s eyes as Frithiof once
more sung the praises of Blanche Morgan.
“Have they formed any plan for their tour?” he asked.
“No; they mean to talk it over with you and get your advice. They all
professed to have a horror of Baedeker, though even with your help I
don’t think they will get far without him.”
“It is certain that they will not want to stay very long in our Bergen,”
said Herr Falck, “the English never do. What should you say now if you
all took your summer outing at once and settled down at Ulvik or Balholm
for a few weeks, then you would be able to see a little of our friends
and could start them well on their tour.”
“What a delightful plan, little father!” cried Sigrid; “only you must
come too, or we shall none of us enjoy it.”
“I would run over for the Sunday, perhaps; that would be as much as I
could manage; but Frithiof will be there to take care of you. What
should you want with a careworn old man like me, now that he is at home
again?”
“You fish for compliments, little father,” said Sigrid, slipping her arm
within his and giving him one of those mute caresses which are so much
more eloquent than words. “But, quite between ourselves, though Frithiof
is all very well, I shant enjoy it a bit without you.”
“Yes, yes, father dear,” said Swanhild, “indeed you must come, for
Frithiof he will be just no good at all; he will be sure to dance always
with the pretty Miss Morgan, and to row her about on the fjord all day,
just as he did those pretty girls at Norheimsund and Faleide.”
The innocent earnestness of the child’s tone made them all laugh, and
Frithiof, vowing vengeance on her for her speech, chased her round and
round the garden, their laughter floating back to Herr Falck and Sigrid
as they entered the house.
“The little minx!” said Herr Falck, “how innocently she said it, too! I
don’t think our boy is such a desperate flirt though. As far as I
remember, there was nothing more than a sort of boy and girl friendship
at either place.”
“Oh no,” said Sigrid, smiling. “Frithiof was too much of a school-boy,
every one liked him and he liked every one. I don’t think he is the sort
of man to fall in love easily.”
“No; but when it does come it will be a serious affair. I very much wish
to see him happily married.”
“Oh, father! surely not yet. He is so young, we can’t spare him yet.”
Herr Falck threw himself back in his arm-chair, and mused for a few
minutes.
“One need not necessarily lose him,” he replied, “and you know, Sigrid,
I am a believer in early marriages—at least for my son; I will not say
too much about you, little woman, for as a matter of fact I don’t know
how I should ever spare you.”
“Don’t be afraid, little father; you may be very sure I shant marry till
I see a reasonable chance of being happier than I am at home with you.
And when will that be, do you think?”
He stroked her golden hair tenderly.
“Not just yet, Sigrid, let us hope. Not just yet. As to our Frithiof,
shall I tell you of the palace in cloud-land I am building for him?”
“Not that he should marry the pretty Miss Morgan, as Swanhild calls
her?” said Sigrid, with a strange sinking at the heart.
“Why not? I hear that she is a charming girl, both clever and beautiful,
and indeed it seems to me that he is quite disposed to fall in love with
her at first sight. Of course were he not properly in love I should
never wish him to marry, but I own that a union between the two houses
would be a great pleasure to me—a great relief.”
He sighed, and for the first time the anxious look in his eyes attracted
Sigrid’s notice. “Father, dear,” she exclaimed, “wont you tell me what
is troubling you? There is something, I think. Tell me, little father.”
He looked startled, and a slight flush spread over his face; but when he
spoke his voice was reassuring.
“A business man often has anxieties which can not be spoken of, dear
child. God knows they weigh lightly enough on some men; I think I am
growing old, Sigrid, and perhaps I have never learned to take things so
easily as most merchants do.”
“Why, father, you were only fifty last birthday; you must not talk yet
of growing old. How do other men learn, do you think, to take things
lightly?”
“By refusing to listen to their own conscience,” said Herr Falck, with
sudden vehemence. “By allowing themselves to hold one standard of honor
in private life and a very different standard in business transactions.
Oh, Sigrid! I would give a great deal to find some other opening for
Frithiof. I dread the life for him.”
“Do you think it is really so hard to be strictly honorable in business
life? And yet it is a life that must be lived, and is it not better that
such a man as Frithiof should take it up—a man with such a high sense of
honor?”
“You don’t know what business men have to stand against,” said Herr
Falck. “Frithiof is a good, honest fellow, but as yet he has seen
nothing of life. And I tell you, child, we often fail in our strongest
point.”
He rose from his chair and paced the room; it seemed to Sigrid that a
nameless shadow had fallen on their sunny home. She was for the first
time in her life afraid, though the fear was vague and undefined.
“But there, little one,” said her father, turning toward her again. “You
must not be worried. I get nervous and depressed, that is all. As I told
you, I am growing old.”
“Frithiof would like to help you more if you would let him,” said
Sigrid, rather wistfully. “He was saying so just now.”
“And so he shall in the autumn. He is a good lad, and if all goes well I
hope he will some day be my right hand in the business; but I wish him
to have a few months’ holiday first. And there is this one thing,
Sigrid, which I can tell you, if you really want to know about my
anxieties.”
“Indeed I do, little father,” she said eagerly.
“There are matters which you would not understand even could I speak of
them; but you know, of course, that I am agent in Norway for the firm of
Morgan Brothers. Well, a rumor has reached me that they intend to break
off the connection and to send out the eldest son to set up a branch at
Stavanger. It is a mere rumor and reached me quite accidentally. I very
much hope it may not be true, but there is no denying that Stavanger
would be in most ways better suited for their purpose; in fact, the
friend who told me of the rumor said that they felt now that it had been
a mistake all along to have the agency here and they had only done it
because they knew Bergen and knew me.”
“Why is Stavanger a better place for it?”
“It is better because most of the salmon and lobsters are caught in the
neighborhood of Stavanger, and all the mackerel too to the south of
Bergen. I very much hope the rumor is not true, for it would be a great
blow to me to lose the English connection. Still it is not unlikely, and
the times are hard now—very hard.”
“And you think your palace in cloud-land for Frithiof would prevent Mr.
Morgan from breaking the connection?”
“Yes; a marriage between the two houses would be a great thing, it would
make this new idea unlikely if not altogether impossible. I am thankful
that there seems now some chance of it. Let the two meet naturally and
learn to know each other. I will not say a word to Frithiof, it would
only do harm; but to you, Sigrid, I confess that my heart is set on this
plan. If I could for one moment make you see the future as I see it, you
would feel with me how important the matter is.”
At this moment Frithiof himself entered, and the conversation was
abruptly ended.
“Well, have you decided?” he asked, in his eager, boyish way. “Is it to
be Ulvik or Balholm? What! You were not even talking about that. Oh, I
know what it was then. Sigrid was deep in the discussion of to-morrow’s
dinner. I will tell you what to do, abolish the romekolle, and let us be
English to the backbone. Now I think of it, Mr. Morgan is not unlike a
walking sirloin with a plum-pudding head. There is your bill of fare, so
waste no more time.”
The brother and sister went off together, laughing and talking; but when
the door closed behind them the master of the house buried his face in
his hands and for many minutes sat motionless. What troubled thoughts,
what wavering anxieties filled his mind, Sigrid little guessed. It was,
after all, a mere surface difficulty of which he had spoken; of the real
strain which was killing him by inches he could not say a word to any
mortal being, though now in his great misery he instinctively prayed.
“My poor children!” he groaned. “Oh, God spare them from this shame and
ruin which haunts me. I have tried to be upright and prudent,—it was
only this once that I was rash. Give me success for their sakes, O God!
The selfish and unscrupulous flourish on all sides. Give me this one
success. Let me not blight their whole lives.”
But the next day, when he went forward to greet his English guests, it
would have been difficult to recognize him as the burdened, careworn man
from whose lips had been wrung that confession and that prayer. All his
natural courtesy and brightness had returned to him; if he thought of
his business at all he thought of it in the most sanguine way possible,
and the Morgans saw in him only an older edition of Frithiof, and
wondered how he had managed to preserve such buoyant spirits in the
cares and uncertainties of mercantile life. The two o’clock dinner
passed off well; Sigrid, who was a clever little housekeeper, had
scouted Frithiof’s suggestion as to the roast beef and plum-pudding, and
had carefully devised a thoroughly Norwegian repast.
“For I thought,” she explained afterwards to Blanche, when the two girls
had made friends, “that if I went to England I should wish to see your
home life just exactly as it really is, and so I have ordered the sort
of dinner we should naturally have, and did not, as Frithiof advised,
leave out the romekolle.”
“Was that the stuff like curds and whey?” asked Blanche, who was full of
eager interest in everything.
“Yes: it is sour cream with bread crumbs grated over it. We always have
a plateful each at dinner, it is quite one of our customs. But
everything here is simple of course, not grand as with you; we do not
keep a great number of servants, or dine late, or dress for the
evening—here there is nothing”—she hesitated for a word, then in her
pretty foreign English added, “nothing ceremonious.”
“That is just the charm of it all,” said Blanche, in her sweet gracious
way. “It is all so real and simple and fresh, and I think it was
delightful of you to know how much best we should like to have a glimpse
of your real home life instead of a stupid party. Now mamma cares for
nothing but just to make a great show, it doesn’t matter whether the
visitors really like it or not.”
Sigrid felt a momentary pang of doubt; she had fallen in love with
Blanche Morgan the moment she saw her, but it somehow hurt her to hear
the English girl criticise her own mother. To Sigrid’s loyal nature
there was something out of tune in that last remark.
“Perhaps you and your cousin would like to see over the house,” she
said, by way of making a diversion. “Though I must tell you that we are
considered here in Bergen to be rather English in some points. That is
because of my father’s business connection with England, I suppose.
Here, you see, in his study he has a real English fireplace; we all like
it much better than the stoves, and some day I should like to have them
in the other rooms as well.”
“But there is one thing very un-English,” said Blanche. “There are no
passages; instead, I see, all your rooms open out of each other. Such
numbers of lovely plants, too, in every direction; we are not so
artistic, we stand them all in prim rows in a conservatory. This, too,
is quite new to me. What a good idea!” And she went up to examine a
prettily worked sling fastened to the wall, and made to hold newspapers.
She was too polite, of course, to say what really struck her—that the
whole house seemed curiously simple and bare, and that she had imagined
that one of the leading merchants of Bergen would live in greater style.
As a matter of fact, you might, as Cyril expressed it, have bought the
whole place for an old song, and though there was an air of comfort and
good taste about the rooms and a certain indescribable charm, they were
evidently destined for use and not for show, and with the exception of
some fine old Norwegian silver and a few good pictures Herr Falck did
not possess a single thing of value.
Contrasted with the huge and elaborately furnished house in Lancaster
Gate with its lavishly strewn knick-knacks, its profusion of all the
beautiful things that money could buy, the Norwegian villa seemed poor
indeed, yet there was something about it which took Blanche’s fancy.
Later on, when the whole party had started for a walk, and when Frithiof
and Blanche had quite naturally drifted into a _tête-à-tête_, she said
something to this effect.
“I begin not to wonder that you are so happy,” she added; “the whole
atmosphere of the place is happiness. I wish you could teach us the
secret of it.”
“Have you then only the gift of making other people happy?” said
Frithiof. “That seems strange.”
“You will perhaps think me very discontented,” she said, with a pathetic
little sadness in her tone which touched him; “but seeing how fresh and
simple and happy your life is out here makes me more out of heart than
ever with my own home. You must not think I am grumbling; they are very
good to me, you know, and give me everything that money can buy; but
somehow there is so much that jars on one, and here there seems nothing
but kindliness and ease and peace.”
“I am glad you like our life,” he said; “so very glad.”
And as she told him more of her home and her London life, and of how
little it satisfied her, her words, and still more her manner and her
sweet eyes, seemed to weave a sort of spell about him, seemed to lure
him on into a wonderful future, and to waken in him a new life.
“I like him,” thought Blanche to herself. “Perhaps after all this
Norwegian tour will not be so dull. I like to see his eye light up so
eagerly; he really has beautiful eyes! I almost think—I really almost
think I am just a little bit in love with him.”
At this moment they happened to overtake two English tourists on the
road; as they passed on in front of them Frithiof, with native courtesy,
took off his hat.
“You surely don’t know that man? He is only a shopkeeper,” said Blanche,
not even taking the trouble to lower her voice.
Frithiof crimsoned to the roots of his hair.
“I am afraid he must have heard what you said,” he exclaimed, quickening
his pace in the discomfort of the realization. “I do not know him
certainly, but one is bound to be courteous to strangers.”
“I know exactly who he is,” said Blanche, “for he and his sister were on
the steamer, and Cyril found out all about them. He is Boniface, the
music-shop man.”
Frithiof was saved a reply, for just then they reached their
destination, and rejoined the rest of the party, who were clustered
together on the hill-side enjoying a most lovely view. Down below them,
sheltered by a great craggy mountain on the further side, lay a little
lonely lake, so weird-looking, so desolate, that it was hard to believe
it to be within an easy walk of the town. Angry-looking clouds were
beginning to gather in the sky, a purple gloom seemed to overspread the
mountain and the lake, and something of its gravity seemed also to have
fallen upon Frithiof. He had found the first imperfection in his ideal,
yet it had only served to show him how great a power, how strange an
influence she possessed over him. He knew now that, for the first time
in his life, he was blindly, desperately in love.
“Why, it is beginning to rain,” said Mr. Morgan. “I almost think we had
better be turning back, Herr Falck. It has been a most enjoyable little
walk; but if we can reach the hotel before it settles in for a wet
evening, why, all the better.”
“The rain is the great drawback to Bergen,” said Herr Falck. “At
Christiania they have a saying that when you go to Bergen it rains three
hundred and sixty-six days out of the year. But after all one becomes
very much accustomed to it.”
On the return walk the conversation was more general, and though
Frithiof walked beside Blanche he said very little. His mind was full of
the new idea which had just dawned upon him, and he heard her merry talk
with Sigrid and Swanhild like a man in a dream. Before long, much to his
discomfort, he saw in front of them the two English tourists, and though
his mind was all in a tumult with this new perception of his love for
Blanche, yet the longing to make up for her ill-judged remark, the
desire to prove that he did not share in her prejudice, was powerful
too. He fancied it was chiefly to avoid them that the Englishman turned
toward the bank just as they passed to gather a flower which grew high
above his head.
“What can this be, Cecil?” he remarked.
“Allow me, sir,” said Frithiof, observing that it was just out of the
stranger’s reach.
He was two or three inches taller, and, with an adroit spring, was able
to bring down the flower in triumph. By this time the others were some
little way in advance. He looked rather wistfully after Blanche, and
fancied disapproval in her erect, trim little figure.
“This is the Linnæa,” he explained. “You will find a great deal of it
about. It was the flower, you know, which Linnæus chose to name after
himself. Some say he showed his modesty in choosing so common and
insignificant a plant, but it always seems to me that he showed his good
taste. It is a beautiful flower.”
Roy Boniface thanked him heartily for his help. “We were hoping to find
the Linnæa,” he said, handing it to his sister, while he opened a
specimen tin.
“What delicate little bells!” she exclaimed. “I quite agree with you
that Linnæus showed his good taste.”
Frithiof would probably have passed on had he not, at that moment,
recognized Cecil as the English girl whom he had first accosted on the
steamer.
“Pardon me for not knowing you before,” he said, raising his hat. “We
met yesterday afternoon, did we not? I hope you have had a pleasant time
at Bergen?”
“Delightful, thank you. We think it the most charming town we ever saw.”
“Barring the rain,” said Roy, “for which we have foolishly forgotten to
reckon.”
“Never be parted from your umbrella is a sound maxim for this part of
the world,” said Frithiof, smiling. “Halloo! it is coming down in good
earnest. I’m afraid you will get very wet,” he said, glancing at Cecil’s
pretty gray traveling dress.
“Shall we stand up for a minute under that porch, Roy?” said the girl,
glancing at a villa which they were just passing.
“No, no,” said Frithiof: “please take shelter with us. My father’s villa
is close by. Please come.”
And since Cecil was genuinely glad not to get wet through, and since
Roy, though he cared nothing for the rain, was glad to have a chance of
seeing the inside of a Norwegian villa, they accepted the kindly offer,
and followed their guide into the pretty, snug-looking house.
Roy had heard a good deal of talk about sweetness and light, but he
thought he had never realized the meaning of the words till the moment
when he was ushered into that pretty Norwegian drawing-room, with its
painted floor and groups of flowers, and its pink-tinted walls, about
which the green ivy wreathed itself picturesquely, now twining itself
round some mirror or picture-frame, now forming a sort of informal
frieze round the whole room, its roots so cleverly hidden away in
sheltered corners or on unobtrusive brackets that the growth had all the
fascination of mystery. The presiding genius of the place, and the very
center of all that charmed, stood by one of the windows, the light
falling on her golden hair. She had taken off her hat and was flicking
the rain-drops from it with her handkerchief when Frithiof introduced
the two Bonifaces, and Roy, who found his novel experience a little
embarrassing, was speedily set at ease by her delightful naturalness and
frank courtesy.
Her bow and smile were grace itself, and she seemed to take the whole
proceeding entirely as a matter of course; one might have supposed that
she was in the habit of sheltering wet tourists every day of her life.
“I am so glad my brother found you,” she exclaimed. “You would have been
wet through had you walked on to Bergen. Swanhild, run and fetch a
duster; oh, you have brought one already, that’s a good child. Now let
me wipe your dress,” she added, turning to Cecil.
“Where has every one disappeared to?” asked Frithiof.
“Father has walked on to Holdt’s Hotel with the Morgans,” said Swanhild.
“They would not wait, though we tried to persuade them to. Father is
going to talk over their route with them.”
Cecil saw a momentary look of annoyance on his face; but the next minute
he was talking as pleasantly as possible to Roy, and before long the
question of routes was being discussed, and as fast as Frithiof
suggested one place, Sigrid and Swanhild mentioned others which must on
no account be missed.
“And you can really only spare a month for it all?” asked Sigrid. “Then
I should give up going to Christiania or Trondhjem if I were you. They
will not interest you half as much as this southwest coast.”
“But, Sigrid, it is impossible to leave out Kongswold and Dombaas. For
you are a botanist, are you not?” said Frithiof, turning to the
Englishman, “and those places are perfection for flowers.”
“Yes? Then you must certainly go there,” said Sigrid. “Kongswold is a
dear little place up on the Dovrefjeld. Yet if you were not botanists I
should say you ought to see instead either the Vöringsfos or the
Skjaeggedalsfos, they are our two finest waterfalls.”
“The Skedaddle-fos, as the Americans call it,” put in Frithiof.
“You have a great many American tourists, I suppose,” said Roy.
“Oh, yes, a great many, and we like them very well, though not as we
like the English. To the English we feel very much akin.”
“And you speak our language so well!” said Cecil, to whom the discovery
had been a surprise and a relief.
“You see we Norwegians think a great deal of education. Our schools are
very good; we are all taught to speak German and English. French, which
with you comes first, does it not? stands third with us.”
“Tell me about your schools,” said Cecil. “Are they like ours, I
wonder?”
“We begin at six years old to go to the middle school—they say it is
much like your English high schools; both my brother and I went to the
middle schools here at Bergen. Then when we were sixteen we went to
Christiania, he to the Handelsgymnasium, and I to Miss Bauer’s school,
for two years. My little sister is now at the middle school here; she
goes every day, but just now it is holiday time.”
“And in holidays,” said Swanhild, whose English was much less fluent and
ready, “we go away. We perhaps go to-morrow to Balholm.”
“Perhaps we shall meet you again there,” said Sigrid. “Oh, do come
there; it is such a lovely place.”
Then followed a discussion about flowers, in which Sigrid was also
interested, and presently Herr Falck returned, and added another
picture of charming hospitality to the group that would always remain
in the minds of the English travelers; and then there was afternoon
tea, which proved a great bond of union and more discussion of English
and Norwegian customs, and much laughter and merriment and
light-heartedness.
When at length the rain ceased and Roy and Cecil were allowed to leave
for Bergen, they felt as if the kindly Norwegians were old friends.
“Shall you be very much disappointed if we give up the Skedaddle-fos?”
asked Roy. “It seems to me that a water-fall is a water-fall all the
world over, but that we are not likely to meet everywhere with a family
like that.”
“Oh, by all means give it up,” said Cecil gayly. “I would far rather
have a few quiet days at Balholm. I detest toiling after the things
every one expects you to see. Besides, we can always be sure of finding
the Skjaeggedalsfos in Norway, but we can’t tell what may happen to
these delightful people.”