She raised her face to his in the dim starlight. “Yes, I did promise.” “And the answer is—?” “I love you.” The soft Norse words were spoken hardly above her breath, yet Roy knew that they would ring in his heart all his life long. “My darling!” he said, taking her in his arms. “Oh, if you knew what the waiting has been to me! But it was my own fault—all my own fault. I ought to have trusted your instinct before my own reason.” “No, no,” she said, clinging to him; “I think I was hard and bitter that day; you must forgive me, for I was so very unhappy. Don’t let us speak of it any more. I hate to think of it even.” “And nothing can ever come between us again,” he said, still keeping his arm round her as they walked on. “No; never again,” she repeated; “never again. I know I am too proud and independent, and I suppose it is to crush down my pride that I have to come to you like this, robbed of position and money, and—” “How can you speak of such things,” he said reproachfully. “You know they are nothing to me—you know that I can never feel worthy of you.” “Such things do seem very little when one really loves,” she said gently. “I have thought it over, and it seems to me like this—the proof of your love to me is that you take me poor, an exile more or less burdened with the past; the proof of my love to you is that I kill my pride—and yield. It would have seemed impossible to me once; but now—Oh, Roy! how I love you—how I love you!” * * * * * “And about Frithiof?” said Roy presently. “You will explain all to him, and make him understand that I would not for the world break up his home.” “Yes,” she replied, “I will tell him; but I think not to-night. Just till to-morrow let it be only for ourselves. Hark! the clocks are striking twelve! Let us go in and wish the others a happy Christmas.” But Roy kept the first of the good wishes for himself; then, at length releasing her, walked beside her toward the house, happy beyond all power of expression. And now once more outer things began to appeal to him he became conscious of the Christmas bells ringing gayly in the stillness of the night, of the stars shining down gloriously through the clear, frosty air, of the cheerful glimpse of home to be seen through the uncurtained window of the drawing-room. Cecil and Frithiof had left the veranda and returned to the piano; they were singing a carol, the German air of which was well known in Norway. Sigrid did not know the English words; but she listened to them now intently, and they helped to reconcile her to the one thorn in her perfect happiness—the thought that these other two were shut out from the bliss which she enjoyed. Quietly she stole into the room and stood watching them as they sang the quaint old hymn: