“To our next merry meeting,” said Roy, lifting his hat; and then there was a general waving of handkerchiefs from the kindly little crowd on the pier and from the parting guests, and, in all the babel and confusion, Frithiof was conscious only of Blanche’s clear “_Auf wiedersehen!_” and saw nothing but the sweet dark eyes, which to the very last dwelt on him. “Well, that is over!” he said to Sigrid, pulling himself together, and stifling a sigh. “Perhaps they will come here next year,” suggested Sigrid consolingly. “Perhaps I shall go to England next autumn,” said Frithiof with a smile. “So soon!” she exclaimed involuntarily. He laughed, for the words were such a curious contradiction to the ones which lurked in his own mind. “Oh! you call two months a short time!” he exclaimed; “and to me it seems an eternity. You will have to be very forbearing, for I warn you such a waiting time is very little to my taste.” “Then why did you not speak now, before she went away?” “You wisest of advisers!” he said, with a smile: “I did speak yesterday.” “Yesterday!” she cried eagerly. “Yesterday, on Munkeggen?” “Yes; all that now remains is to get Mr. Morgan’s consent to our betrothal.” “Oh, Frithiof, I am so glad! so very glad! How pleased father will be! I think you must write and let him know.” “If he will keep it quite secret,” said Frithiof; “but of course not a word must be breathed until her father has consented. There is no engagement as yet, only we know that we love each other.” “That ought to be enough to satisfy you till the autumn. And it was so nice of you to tell me, Frithiof. Oh, I don’t think I could have borne it if you had chosen to marry some girl I didn’t like. As for Blanche, there never was any one more sweet and lovely.” It seemed that Frithiof’s happiness was to bring happiness to the whole family. Even little Swanhild guessed the true state of things, and began to frame visions of the happy future when the beautiful English girl should become her own sister; while as to Herr Falck, the news seemed to banish entirely the heavy depression which for some time had preyed upon him. And so, in spite of the waiting, the time slipped by quickly to Frithiof, the mere thought of Blanche’s love kept him rapturously happy, and at the pretty villa in Kalvedalen there was much laughter and mirth, and music and singing—much eager expectation and hope, and much planning of a future life which should be even more full and happy. At length, when the afternoons closed in early, and the long winter was beginning to give signs of its approach, Frithiof took leave of his home, and, on one October Saturday, started on his voyage to England. It was, in a sense, the great event of his life, and they all instinctively knew that it was a crisis, so that Sigrid drew aside little Swanhild at the last, and left the father and son to have their parting words alone.