“It was only to-night that gave him his answer,” said Sigrid. “It was when we were at the sea last June that he first spoke to me, and then—afterward—perhaps I was wrong, but I would not hear anything more about it till your cloud had passed away. I knew some day that your name must be cleared, and I was angry with Roy for not believing in you. I dare say I was wrong to expect it, but somehow I did expect it, and it disappointed me so dreadfully. He says himself now that he ought to have trusted—” “It was a wonder that you didn’t make him hate me forever,” said Frithiof. “Why did you not tell me about it before?” “How could I?” she said. “It would only have made you more unhappy. It was far better to wait.” “But what a terrible autumn for you!” exclaimed Frithiof. “And to think that all this should have sprung from that wretched five-pound note! Our stories have been curiously woven together, Sigrid.” As she thought of the contrast between the two stories her tears broke forth afresh; she walked on silently hoping that he would not notice them, but a drop fell right on to his wrist; he stopped suddenly, took her face between his hands and looked full into her eyes. “You dear little goose,” he said, “what makes you cry! Was it because I said our stories had been woven together?” “It’s because I wish they could have been alike,” she sobbed. “But it wasn’t to be,” he said quietly. “It is an odd thing to say to you to-night, when your new life is beginning, but to-night I also am happy, because now at last my struggle is over—now at last the fire is burned out. I don’t want anything but just the peace of being free to the end of my life. Believe me, I am content.” Her throat seemed to have closed up, she could not say a word just because she felt for him so intensely. She gave him a little mute caress, and once more they paced along the garden path. But her whole soul revolted against this notion of content. She understood it as little as the soldier marching to his first battle understands the calm indifference of the comrade who lies in hospital. Surely Frithiof was to have something better in his life than this miserable parody of love? This passion, which had been almost all pain, could surely not be the only glimpse vouchsafed him of the bliss which had transfigured the whole world for her? There came back to her the thought of the old study at Bergen, and she seemed to hear her father’s voice saying— “I should like an early marriage for Frithiof, but I will not say too much about you, Sigrid, for I don’t know how I should ever spare you.” And she sighed as she remembered how his plans had been crossed and his business ruined, and his heart broken—how both for him and for Frithiof failure had been decreed. Yet the Christmas bells rang on in this world of strangely mingled joy and sorrow, and they brought her much the same message that had been brought to her by the silence on Hjerkinshö—