“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.”