And yet it was out of this very torture of realization that his comfort at last sprung—such comfort at least as he was at present capable of receiving. We must all have some sort of future to look to, some sort of aim before us, or life would be intolerable. The veriest beggar in the street concentrates his thought on the money to be made, or the shelter to be gained for the coming night. And there came, fortunately, to Frithiof, jilted, ruined, bereaved as he was, one strong desire—one firm resolve. He would pay off his father’s debts to the last farthing; he would work, he would slave, he would deny himself all but the bare necessities of life. The name of Falck should yet be redeemed; and a glow of returning hope rose in his heart as he remembered his father’s parting words, “I look to you, Frithiof, to carry out the aims in which I myself have failed, to live the life I could wish to have lived.” Yet how different all had been when those words had been spoken! The recollection of them did him good—brought him, as it were, back to life again—but at the same time they were the most cruel pain. He saw again the harbor at Bergen, the ships, the mountains, the busy quay; he saw his father so vividly that it seemed to him as if he must actually be before him at that very moment, the tone of his voice rang in his ears, the pressure of his hand seemed yet to linger with him. What wonder that it should still be so fresh in his memory? It was only three days ago. Only three days! Yet the time to look back on now seemed more like three years. With amazement he dwelt on the fact, thinking, as we mostly do in sudden trouble, how little time it takes for things to happen. It is a perception that does not come to us in the full swing of life, when all seems safe and full of bright promise, any more than in yachting it troubles us to reflect that there is only a plank between ourselves and the unfathomed depths of the sea. We expect all to go well, we feel no fear, we enjoy life easily, and when disaster comes its rude haste astounds us—so much is changed in one sudden, crushing blow. He remembered how he had whistled the “Bridal Song of the Hardanger,” as he cheerfully paced the deck full of thoughts of Blanche and of the bright future that was opening before him. The tune rang in his ears now with a mournful persistence. He buried his face in his hands, letting the flood of grief sweep over him, opposing to it no thought of comfort, no recollection of what was still left to him. If Blanche had been faithful to him all might have been different; her father would never have taken away the agency if she had told him the truth when she first got home; the Iceland expedition might have failed, but his father could have got voluntary agreement with his creditors, he himself might perhaps have been put at the head of the branch at Stavanger, all would have been well.