"The fact is she has no vocation whatever; that is the whole secret of the matter. Her singing? Tande so often wrote to me about her singing. Well, I have been listening to her singing this morning, and do you know what I think about it? Technical correctness, good method, pure tone, in abundance; but no fancy, no inspiration, no expression; how the deuce could there be! Had she had fancy, she would have had energy, and with her voice, her natural technical ability, she would have become a singer, whether there was a Tande or not, whether she had married a Skarlie or a Farlie." Notwithstanding the harsh, blunt form in which this idea was framed, there might be sufficient truth in it to make it worth while to place Magnhild's history before Grong in its true light. Grong could not resist the fascination of a soul's experiences. He became all ear, forgetting both his ire and his "skyds." He heard now about the Magnhild who would scarcely take pains to dress herself, and who let Skarlie do and say what he pleased, but who the moment Skarlie mentions Tande's name and hers together, in other words, invades her inner sanctuary, flees forthwith from him to America. Was there no energy in that? He heard about the Magnhild who, checked in her highest aspirations, became wholly indifferent. The relations with Tande were fully explained. Grong, indeed, had been partially acquainted with them by Tande himself. Rönnaug also thought it right to inform Grong of the purport of Tande's letter; she could recall it perfectly, for it had made a deep impression on her. What an impression did it not make on Grong! How much it must have cost this man in his time to renounce what he had originally believed to be his vocation. And now to have to give up his hopes for his son? How could she and Magnhild have laughed at this--as they had done that same morning. "Consolation in the idea that our calling is greater and more manifold than we ourselves are aware? Yes, for those who can blindly and without exercise of their own wills place themselves under subjection to the unknown guidance! I cannot do so!" He raised his clinched hand, but let it fall again. "Is it a crime to steer toward a definite goal, and concentrate one's will, one's responsibility upon its attainment? Look at yonder insect! It goes straight forward; it has a fixed aim. Now I crush it to death. See--thus! "You should have seen my wife," he continued, presently. "She sped onward through life, with fluttering veil; her eyes, her thoughts sparkled. What was her goal? Just as she was beginning, with my aid, to comprehend her faculties, she expired. A meteor! "I had a friend. What talents, and what aspirations! How handsome he was! When he was but little over twenty years of age, he fell during the siege of a Danish fortress, scarcely mentioned, scarcely remembered. A meteor!