“Did you ever see anything so lovely as all this pink may and yellow laburnum?” cried Sigrid, as one spring evening she and Frithiof walked westward to fulfill one of the evening engagements to which they had now become pretty well accustomed. “No; we had nothing equal to this at Bergen,” he admitted, and in very good spirits they walked on, past the great wealthy houses; he with his violin-case, and she with a big roll of music, well content with the success they had worked hard to win, and not at all disposed to envy the West End people. It was indeed a great treat to Sigrid to have a glimpse of so different a life. She had toiled so often up the long stone stairs, that to be shown up a wide, carpeted staircase, into which one’s feet seemed to sink as into moss, was a delightful change, and snugly ensconced in her little corner behind the piano, she liked to watch the prettily decorated rooms and the arrival of the gayly dressed people. Frithiof, who had at first greatly disliked this sort of work, had become entirely accustomed to it: it no longer hurt his pride, for Sigrid had nearly succeeded in converting him to her doctrine, that a noble motive ennobles any work; and if ever things annoyed him or chafed his independence, he thought of the debts at Bergen, and was once more ready to endure anything. This evening he happened to be particularly cheerful; things had gone well lately at the shop; his health was increasing every day, and the home atmosphere had done a great deal to banish the haunting thoughts of the past which in solitude had so preyed on his mind. They discussed the people in Norwegian during the intervals, and in a quiet way were contriving to get a good deal of fun out of the evening, when suddenly their peace was invaded by the unexpected sight of the very face which Frithiof had so strenuously tried to exile from his thoughts. They had just finished a waltz. Sigrid looked up from her music and saw, only a few yards distant from her, the pretty willowy figure, the glowing face and dark eyes and siren-like smile of Lady Romiaux. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating, then with a wild hope that possibly Frithiof might not have noticed her, she turned to him with intense anxiety. But his profile looked as though it were carved in white stone, and she saw only too plainly that the hope was utterly vain. “Frithiof,” she said in Norwegian, “you are faint. Go out into the cool and get some water before the next dance.” He seemed to hear her voice, but not to take in her words; there was a dazed look in his face, and such despair in his eyes that her heart failed her. All the terrible dread for his health again returned to her. It seemed as if nothing could free him from the fatal influence which Blanche had gained over him.