“They are bound to get me sooner or later,” he thought, “for I can never hold out till daylight. I may as well let myself go.” And the thought of the horror of that fall was so great that he almost woke with it. But something seemed to him to quiet him again. It was partly curiosity to understand the meaning of a light which had dawned in the sky, and which deepened and spread every moment. At last he saw that it had been caused by the opening of a door, and in the doorway, with a glory of light all about them, he saw the Madonna and the Holy Child. A path of light traced itself from them on the mountain-side to the place where he stood, and he struggled up, no longer afraid to go forward, and without a thought of the beasts or the precipice. And thus struggling on, all details were lost in a flood of light, and warmth, and perfect content, and a welcome that left nothing wanting. A pushing back of chairs in the room below suddenly roused him. With a sense of bewilderment, he found himself lying on the hard lodging-house bed, and heard the quarrelsome voices rising through the floor. “Still at it,” he thought to himself with a bitter smile. And then he thought of the picture of the Romsdalshorn he had seen that afternoon—he remembered a horrible temptation that had seized him—remembered Cecil standing in the open door with the child in her arms, remembered the perfect welcome he had received from the whole house. Should he in his foolish pride drift into the miserable state of these poor Turnours, and drag through life in poverty, because he was too well-born to take the work he could get? “These poor ladies would be happier even in service than they are here, in what they call independence,” he reflected. “I shall take this situation; it’s the first step up.” The next morning he went to the Swedish Embassy to ask advice once more. “I am glad to see you,” said the consul. “I was hoping you would look in again, for I met old Sivertsen the other day, and he was most anxious to have your address. He said you went off in a hurry, and never gave him time to finish what he was saying.” Frithiof smiled. “He did nothing but inveigh against the rising generation, and I didn’t care to waste the whole morning over that.” “You have too little diplomacy about you,” said the consul. “You do not make the best of your own case. However, Sivertsen seems to have taken a fancy to you, and I advise you to go to him again; he will most likely offer you work. If I were you, I would make up my mind to take whatever honest work turns up, and throw pride to the winds. Leave your address here with me, and if I hear of anything I’ll let you know.” Frithiof, somewhat unwillingly, made his way to Museum Street, and was ushered into the stuffy little den where Herr Sivertsen sat smoking and writing serenely. He bowed stiffly, but was startled to see the sudden change which came over the face of the old Norwegian at sight of him.