She nodded, and they both helped her down the heap of stones. Why, she knew not, but suddenly she had thought of her mother, who was dead, and wondered whether she had ever felt thus forlorn in spite of her father's fondness. But when they came in sight of the hut again, she said, as if it had just occurred to her: "Papa, there are some names cut in the door; let us cut ours too." "But child, you are so cold and pale--" "Never mind; let us cut our names; I want to," she urged, like a spoilt child. "No, Eva--what nonsense!" "Oh, but I do want to," she repeated coaxingly, but the old man would not give in, grumbling still; Frank, however, pulled out his pocket-knife. "Oh, Mr. Westhove, do cut my name; nothing but Eva--only three letters. Will you?" she asked softly. Frank had it on his lips to say that he would like to cut his own name with hers, although it was so long, but he was silent; it would have sounded flat and commonplace in the midst of this mournful scenery. So he carved the letters on the door, which was like a traveller's album. Eva stood gazing out to the west, and she saw the three streaks of gold turn pale, and the rose-tint fade away. "The sun, the sun!" she murmured, with a shudder, and a faint smile on her white lips and in her tearful eyes. A few heavy drops of rain had begun to fall. Sir Archibald asked if they were ever coming, and led the way. Eva nodded with a smile, and went up to Frank: "Have you done it, Mr. Westhove?" "Yes," said Frank, hastily finishing the last letter. She looked up, and saw that he had cut, "Eva Rhodes," and in very neat, even letters, smoothly finished. Below he had roughly cut, "Frank," in a great hurry. "Why did you add 'Rhodes'?" she asked, and her voice was faint, as if far away. "Because it took longer," Frank replied simply. IV. They got back to the Grand Hotel in a torrent of rain, a deluge poured out of all the urns of heaven; muddy to their waists, wet to the skin, and chilled to the bone. Eva, after a hot supper, was sent off to bed by her father, and the three men--Sir Archibald, Frank, and Bertie--sat in the drawing-room, where a few other visitors, all very cross at the bad weather, tried to solace themselves with illustrated papers or albums. The old gentleman took a doze in an easy-chair. Frank gazed pensively at the straight streaks of rain, which fell like an endless curtain of close steel needles, thrashing the surface of the fjord. Bertie sipped a hot grog, and looked at his shiny slippers. "And did you not miss my company on your excursion?" he asked, addressing Frank with a smile, just to break the silence that reigned in the room. Westhove turned to him in some surprise, as if roused from a dream; then, with a frank laugh, he briefly answered: "No."