As Roy kept watch through the long nights and days that followed, as he listened to the delirious ravings of his patient, and perceived how a man’s life and health had been ruined by the faithlessness of a vain girl, he became so absorbed in poor Frithiof, so devoted to him, that he altogether forgot his specimens and his microscope. He wondered greatly how many victims had been sacrificed to Blanche Romiaux’s selfish love of admiration, and he longed to have her in that room, and point to the man who tossed to and fro in sleepless misery, and say to her, “This is what your hateful flirting has brought about.” But the little Norwegian episode had entirely passed out of Lady Romiaux’s mind. Had she been questioned she would probably have replied that her world contained too many hard realities to leave room for the recollection of mere dreams. The dream, however, had gone hard with Frithiof. Sleeping draughts had no effect on him, and his temperature remained so high that Dr. Morris began to fear the worst. Roy used to be haunted by the thought that he had telegraphed for Sigrid Falck, and that he should have to meet her after her long journey with the news that all was over. And remembering the bright face and sunny manner of the Norwegian girl, his heart failed him at the thought of her desolation. But Frithiof could not even take in the idea that she had been sent for. Nothing now made any difference to him. Sleep alone could restore him. But sleep refused to come, and already the death-angel hovered near, ready to give him the release for which he so greatly longed. CHAPTER XVII. 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.