By this time he had partly recovered, was sufficiently himself again to feel some sort of anxiety to read the rest of the message. Possibly there was something he might do to help his father. He read on and took in the next sentence almost at a glance. “Shock caused cerebral hemorrhage. He died this afternoon.” Frithiof felt a choking sensation in his throat; if he could not get out into the open air he felt that he should die, and by an instinct he turned toward the door, made a step or two forward, then staggered and caught at Roy Boniface to save himself from falling. Roy held him up and looked at him anxiously. “You have had bad news?” he asked. Frithiof tried to speak, but no words would come; he gasped for breath, felt his limbs failing, saw a wavy, confused picture of the vestibule, the waiter, the two girls, an elderly gentleman joining them, then felt himself guided down on to the floor, never quite losing consciousness, yet helpless either to speak or move and with a most confused sense of what had passed. “It is in Norwegian,” he heard Roy say. “Bad news from his home, I am afraid.” “Poor fellow!” said another voice. “Open the door some one. It’s air he wants.” “I saw there was something wrong, father,” this was in a girl’s voice. “He looked quite dazed with trouble as he read.” “You’ll be late for the Lyceum,” thought Frithiof, and making an effort to get up, he sunk for a moment into deeper depths of faintness; the voices died away into indistinctness, then came a consciousness of hands at his shoulders and his feet; he was lifted up and carried away somewhere. Struggling back to life again in a few moments, he found that he was lying on a bed, the window was wide open, and a single candle flickered wildly in the draught. Roy Boniface was standing by him holding a glass of water to his lips. With an effort he drank. “You are better, sir?” asked the waiter. “Anything I can do for you, sir? Any answer to the telegram?” “The telegram! What do you mean?” exclaimed Frithiof. Then as full recollection came back to him, he turned his face from the light with a groan. “The gentleman had, perhaps, better see a doctor,” suggested the waiter to Roy. But Frithiof turned upon him sharply. “I am better. You can go away. All I want is to be alone.” The man retired, but Roy still lingered. He could not make up his mind to leave any one in such a plight, so he crossed the room and stood by the open window looking out gravely at the dark river with its double row of lights and their long shining reflections. Presently a sound in the room made him turn. Frithiof had dragged himself up to his feet, with an impatient gesture he blew out the flickering candle, then walked with unsteady steps to the window and dropped into a chair. “So you are here still?” he said, with something of relief in his tone. “I couldn’t bear to leave till you were all right again,” said Roy. “Wont you tell me what is the matter, Falck?”