His words were perfectly true. That curiously assorted gathering of different nationalities would never again meet, and yet those days of close intimacy were destined to influence forever, either for good or for evil, the lives of each one. All through the Sunday Blanche had kept in bed, for though the excitement had kept her up, on the previous night, she inevitably suffered from the effects of her fall. It was not till the Monday morning, just before the arrival of the steamer, that Frithiof could find the opportunity for which he had impatiently waited. They walked through the little garden, ostensibly to watch for the steamer from the mound by the flagstaff, but they only lingered there for a minute, glancing anxiously down the fjord where in the distance could be seen the unwelcome black speck. On the further side of the mound, down among the trees and bushes, was a little sheltered seat. It was there that they spent their last moments, there that Blanche listened to his eager words of love, there that she again bade him wait till October, at the same time giving him such hope and encouragement as must surely have satisfied the most _exigeant_ lover. All too soon the bustle of departure reached them, and the steam-whistle—most hateful and discordant of sounds—rang and resounded among the mountains. “I must go,” she exclaimed, “or they will be coming to look for me. This is our real good-by. On the steamer it will be just a hand-shake, but now—” And she lifted a lovely, glowing face to his. Then, presently, as they walked down to the little pier, she talked fast and gayly of all they would do when he came to England; she talked because, for once, he was absolutely silent, and because she was afraid that her uncle would guess their secret; perhaps it was a relief to her that Frithiof volunteered to run back to the hotel for Mr. Morgan’s opera-glass, which had been left by mistake in the _salon_, so that, literally, there was only time for the briefest of farewells on the steamer. He went through it all in a business-like fashion, smiling mechanically in response to the good wishes, then, with a heavy heart, stepping on shore. Herr Falck, who was returning to Bergen by the same boat, which took the other travelers only as far as Vadheim, was not ill pleased to see his son’s evident dejection; he stood by the bulwarks watching him and saying a word or two now and then to Blanche, who was close by him. “Why see!” he exclaimed, “the fellow is actually coming on board again. We shall be carrying him away with us if he doesn’t take care.” “A thousand pardons!” Frithiof had exclaimed, shaking hands with Cecil and Roy Boniface. “I did not see you before. A pleasant journey to you. You must come again to Norway some day, and let us all meet once more.” “_Vaer saa god!_” exclaimed one of the sailors; and Frithiof had to spring down the gangway.