As Frithiof walked along the grassy terrace he could hear sounds of music floating from the house; some one was playing a most inspiriting waltz, and as soon as he had reached the open French window of his father’s study a quaint pair of dancers became visible. A slim little girl of ten years old, with very short petticoats, and very long golden hair braided into a pigtail, held by the front paws a fine Esquimaux dog, who seemed quite to enter into the fun and danced and capered most cleverly, obediently keeping his long pointed nose over his partner’s shoulder. The effect was so comical that Frithiof stood laughingly by to watch the performance for fully half a minute, then, unable to resist his own desire to dance, he unceremoniously called Lillo the dog away and whirled off little Swanhild in the rapid waltz which Norwegians delight in. The languid grace of a London ball-room would have had no charms for him; his dancing was full of fire and impetuosity, and Swanhild, too, danced very well; it had come to them both as naturally as breathing. “This is better than Lillo,” admitted the child. “Somehow he’s so dreadful heavy to get round. Have the English people come? What are they like?” “Oh, they’re middling,” said Frithiof, “all except the niece, and she is charming.” “Is she pretty?” “Prettier than any one you ever saw in your life.” “Not prettier than Sigrid?” said the little sister confidently. “Wait till you see,” said Frithiof. “She is a brunette and perfectly lovely. There now!” as the music ceased, “Sigrid has felt her left ear burning, and knows that we are speaking evil of her. Let us come to confess.” With his arms still round the child he entered the pretty bright-looking room to the right. Sigrid was still at the piano, but she had heard his voice and had turned round with eager expectation in her face. The brother and sister were very much alike; each had the same well-cut Greek features, but Frithiof’s face was broader and stronger, and you could tell at a glance that he was the more intellectual of the two. On the other hand, Sigrid possessed a delightful fund of quiet common-sense, and her judgment was seldom at fault, while, like most Norwegian girls, she had a most charmingly simple manner, and an unaffected light-heartedness which it did one good to see. “Well! what news?” she exclaimed. “Have they come all right? Are they nice?” “Nice is not the word! charming! beautiful! To-morrow you will see if I have spoken too strongly.” “He says she is even prettier than you, Sigrid,” said Swanhild mischievously. “Prettier than any one we ever saw!” “She? Which of them?” “Miss Blanche Morgan, the daughter of the head of the firm, you know.” “And the other one?” “I hardly know. I didn’t look at her much; the others all seemed to me much like ordinary English tourists. But she!—Well, you will see to-morrow.”