... Far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flushed; and, dewed with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.” “You will not be a true lotos-eater till you are there once more,” said Cecil, glancing at him. For his dreamy content was gone, and a wistfulness which she quite understood had taken its place. “Don’t you think now that all is so different, you might perhaps go there next summer?” she added. “No,” he replied, “you must not tempt me. I will not go back till I am a free man and can look every one in the face. The prospect of being free so much sooner than I had expected ought to be enough to satisfy me. Suppose we build castles in the air; that is surely the right thing to do on Christmas eve. When at last these debts are cleared, let us all go to Norway together. I know Mr. Boniface would be enchanted with it, and you, you did not see nearly all that you should have seen. You must see the Romsdal and the Geiranger, and we must show you Oldören, where we so often spent the summer holiday.” “How delightful it would be!” said Cecil. “Don’t say ‘would,’ say ‘will,’” he replied. “I shall not thoroughly enjoy it unless we all go together, a huge party.” “I think we should be rather in the way,” she said. “You would have so many old friends out there, and would want to get rid of us. Don’t you remember the old lady who was so outspoken at Balholm when we tried to be friendly and not to let her feel lonely and out of it?” Frithiof laughed at the recollection. “Yes,” he said; “she liked to be alone, and preferred to walk on quickly and keep ‘out of the ruck,’ as she expressed it. We were ‘the ruck,’ And how we laughed at her opinion of us.” “Well, of course you wouldn’t exactly put it in that way, but all the same, I think you would want to be alone when you go back.” He shook his head. “No; you are quite mistaken. Now, promise that if Mr. Boniface agrees, you will all come too.” “Very well,” she said, smiling, “I promise.” “Where are they going to?” he exclaimed, glancing into the inner room where Roy was wrapping a thick sofa blanket about Sigrid’s shoulders. “Out into the garden to hear the bells, I dare say,” she replied. “We generally go out if it is fine.” “Let us come too,” he said; and they left the bright room and went out into the dusky veranda, pacing silently to and fro, absorbed in their own thoughts while the Christmas bells rang “Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill to all mankind.” But the other two, down in a sheltered path at the end of the garden, were not silent, nor did they listen very much to the bells. “Sigrid,” said Roy, “have you forgotten that you made me a promise last June?” “No,” she said, her voice trembling a little, “I have not forgotten.” “You promised that when Frithiof was cleared I might ask you for your answer.”