Balholm, the loveliest of all the places on the Sogne Fjord, is perhaps the quietest place on earth. There is a hotel, kept by two most delightful Norwegian brothers; there is a bathing-house, a minute landing-stage, and a sprinkling of little wooden cottages with red-tiled roofs. The only approach is by water; no dusty high-road is to be found, no carts and carriages rumble past; if you want rest and quiet, you have only to seek it on the mountains or by the shore; if you want amusement, you have only to join the merry Norwegians in the _salon_, who are always ready to sing or to play, to dance or to talk, or, if weather-bound, to play games with the zest and animation of children. Even so limp a specimen of humanity as Cyril Morgan found that, after all, existence in this primitive region had its charms, while Blanche said, quite truthfully, that she had never enjoyed herself so much in her life. There was to her a charming piquancy about both place and people; and although she was well accustomed to love and admiration, she found that Frithiof was altogether unlike the men she had hitherto met in society; there was about him something strangely fresh—he seemed to harmonize well with the place, and he made all the other men of whom she could think seem ordinary and prosaic. As for Frithiof he made no secret of his love for her, it was apparent to all the world—to the light-hearted Norwegians, who looked on approvingly; to Cyril Morgan, who wondered what on earth Blanche could see in such an unsophisticated boy; to Mr. Morgan, who, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, remarked that there was no help for it—it was Blanche’s way; to Roy Boniface, who thought the two were well matched, and gave them his good wishes; and to Cecil, who, as she watched the two a little wistfully, said in her secret heart what could on no account have been said to any living being, “I hope, oh, I hope she cares for him enough!” One morning, a little tired with the previous day’s excursion to the Suphelle Brae, they idled away the sunny hours on the fjord, Frithiof rowing, Swanhild lying at full length in the bow with Lillo mounting guard over her, and Blanche, Sigrid, and Cecil in the stern. “You have been all this time at Balholm and yet have not seen King Bele’s grave!” Frithiof had exclaimed in answer to Blanche’s inquiry. “Look, here it is, just a green mound by that tree.” “Isn’t it odd,” said Sigrid dreamily, “to think that we are just in the very place where the Frithiof Saga was really lived?” “But I thought it was only a legend,” said Cecil. “Oh, no,” said Frithiof, “the Sagas are not legends, but true stories handed down by word of mouth.” “Then I wish you would hand down your saga to us by word of mouth,” said Blanche, raising her sweet eyes to his. “I shall never take the trouble to read it for myself in some dry, tiresome book. Tell us the story of Frithiof now as we drift along in the boat with his old home Framnaes in sight.”