At which ingenuous congratulations they all laughed so immoderately that Mons Horgheim the cat was roused from his afternoon nap on the steps of the station, and after a preliminary stretch strolled down toward the river to see what was the matter, and to bring the sobriety and accumulated wisdom of his fourteen years to bear upon the situation. “Ah, well,” said Swanhild, with a comical gesture, “there is clearly nothing for me but, as they say in Italy, to stay at home and nurse the cat.” And catching up the astonished Mons, she danced away, eager to be the first to tell the good news to Roy and Sigrid. “It will be really very convenient,” she remarked, to the infinite amusement of her elders. “We shall not lose Frithiof at all; he will only have to move across to Rowan Tree House.” And ultimately that was how matters arranged themselves, so that the house which had sheltered Frithiof in his time of trouble became his home in this time of his prosperity. He had not rushed all at once into full light and complete manhood and lasting happiness. Very slowly, very gradually, the life that had been plunged in darkness had emerged into faint twilight as he had struggled to redeem his father’s name; then, by degrees, the brightness of dawn had increased, and, sometimes helped, sometimes hindered by the lives which had come into contact with his own, he had at length emerged into clearer light, till, after long waiting, the sun had indeed risen. As Swanhild had prophesied, they were by no means selfish lovers, and, far from spoiling the tour, their happiness did much to add to its success. Cecil hardly knew which part of it was most delightful to her, the return of Molde and the pilgrimage to the quaint little jeweler’s shop where they chose two plain gold betrothal rings such as are always used in Norway; or the merry journey to the Geiranger; or the quiet days at Oldören, in that lovely valley with the river curving and bending its way between wooded banks, and the rampart of grand, craggy mountains with snowy peaks, her own special mountain, as Frithiof called Cecilienkrone, dominating all. It was at Oldören that she saw for the first time one of the prettiest sights in Norway—a country wedding. The charming bride, Pernilla, in her silver-gilt crown and bridal ornaments, had her heartiest sympathy, and Frithiof, happening to catch sight of the fiddler standing idly by the churchyard gate when the ceremony was over, brought him into the hotel and set every one dancing. Anna Rasmusen, the clever and charming manager of the inn, volunteered to try the _spring dans_ with Halfstan, the guide. The hamlet was searched for dancers of the _halling_, and the women showed them the pretty _jelster_ and the _tretur_.