"Surely the English cannot be such brutes if this is a specimen of them?"

"Pyt!" he said scornfully. "They are barbarians and brutes, all of them."

Nevertheless he found his way over to the Englishwoman, and was not at all eager to leave her company to join the cheerful contingents of guests who were now strolling over to the black house to take leave of poor Bedstefar's face. When at last he was obliged to go, he even asked her to come too; but as Tante bravely said, they had all seen poor dead Bedstefar often enough to satisfy the most punctilious Gaard etiquette. Soon the Praest arrived, a short man, with a kindly, uninspired countenance. He was accompanied by his wife and two daughters and the Klokker (clerk), who carried in a bag the Calvin ruff and gown still used by the Norwegian and Danish clergymen. For it was due to the position and dignity of the Sollis that most of the funeral service should be conducted in the Gaard itself. If Bedstefar had been of no special standing, he would have been taken without any preliminaries to the churchyard, and in the absence of the clergyman, the clerk would have said the prayers and sung the hymns, and when the clergyman had returned from his parochial duties in some other quarter, he would have thrown the earth and said the final words of committal over perhaps five or six patiently waiting coffins. But Bedstefar being who and what he was, had all possible honour shown him in his death, as in his marriage and at his birth.

The Praest took port wine, chatted with his friends, and went with Bedstemor to say farewell to Bedstefar. And then, at last, at last the coffin was closed and borne through the great hall into the inner sitting-room, preceded by the Praest, now in his vestments, and Bedstemor, who walked bravely by his side. The nearest relations were grouped round the coffin. The women-guests sat in the outer room; the men stood together in the hall. The cotters, their wives, and the servants of the house stood, some on the stairs, and some in the porch. Tante, Katharine, and Gerda, not remembering the custom that the men and women should be separate, sat in the hall, and were able to see through into the inner room, where Bedstemor, still gallantly comporting herself, joined in the dismal singing led by the clerk, and Mor Inga, thinking of the last time that the clerk led the singing in that very room, wept silently, and drew little Helga closer to her side. When the singing and prayers were over, the Praest gave a long funeral discourse, dwelling on poor Bedstefar's virtues, which he was known not to have possessed in overflowing measure: nevertheless tears flowed, and grim old men said, "Ja, ja," and the Praest was considered to have preached appropriately, and Bedstemor seemed gratified. Then the cotters raised the coffin, bore it out, and placed it on the low cart which had been painted black for the occasion; and Svarten, the clever black horse who never slipped, never failed in duty or intelligence, and knew every inch of that winding and awkward way down to the valley, Svarten drew his burden through the decorated gate.

"Farvel, Bedstefar," said every one.

Bedstemor stepped briskly into the carriage, together with the Praest, Solli, and Mor Inga. The daughters remained at home to preside over the final preparations for the feasting. The sons followed in a cariole, and all the other men-guests helped to harness their horses and started off leisurely in the procession, a long, straggling, dust-raising line of about fifty conveyances. The women stayed behind, drank coffee, and strolled about the house, examining everything, as Ragnhild predicted; peering into the huge old painted and decorated chests full of fine linen, looking at the old painted sledge and cradle, dating back from 1450, precious Solli possessions, and casting an eye on the old silver tankards, and on the famous old carved door and sides of a pulpit, formerly belonging to an old church which had been swept away by the falling of an avalanche some hundred and fifty years previously. Then there were the old painted cupboards and the queer-shaped old Norwegian chairs and stools, and the old-fashioned, richly-carved mangles, and the old-world slit of a recess in the wall for the Langeleik, and a fine old Hardanger violin which Bedstefar was reported to have played with uncommon skill; having been specially clever at giving descriptive improvisations of Nature in her many moods, and of things mystic, such as the song of the Huldre, and things human, such as the ringing of marriage-bells. Alas, alas, that old-world ways were dying out and old-world music too! Still there was much of the old atmosphere in the Solli Gaard, and no other homestead in the whole valley could boast of so many old-time treasures curiously mixed up with modern importations. So that the lady funeral-guests had much with which to amuse themselves, and they roamed into the different bedrooms, examined Tante's possessions, and Katharine's belongings, and did not seem at all abashed when Tante and Katharine discovered them in the very act. Of course not, for it was a day of entertainment; and as a sweet little old lady, a pocket edition of Bedstemor, said, with a twinkle in her eye:

"Thou knowest we are here to enjoy ourselves. We have come a long way. And there have not been many funerals or weddings in the valley lately."

Knutty of course understood perfectly, and exerted herself heroically to amuse every one, drinking coffee with every one in a reckless fashion, and even flirting with the one man who was left behind, an aged Gaardmand (landowner) of about ninety years. So the time passed away cheerily for all; and when Bedstemor, Solli, and the Praest arrived home from the churchyard, followed in due time by the others, the feasting began. It seemed to be the etiquette that the women should eat separately from the men. They gathered together in the parlour, where rich soup was served to them sitting; and after this opening ceremony, they were expected to stroll into the great dining-room, where a huge table, beautifully decorated with leaves, was spread with every kind of food acceptable to the Norwegian palate: trout, cooked in various ways; beef, mutton, veal, sauces, gravies, potatoes, even vegetables (a great luxury in those parts), compots, and of course the usual accompaniment of smoked mysteries. The plates, knives, and forks were arranged in solid blocks, and the guests were supposed to wait on themselves and take what they wished. They walked round the table on a voyage of inspection and reflection, carrying a plate and a fork; and having into this one plate put everything that took their fancy, they retired to their seats, and ate steadily in a business-like fashion. There was scarcely any talking. When the women were served, the men came and helped themselves in the same way, retiring with their booty either into the hall or the adjoining room. All of them made many journeys to the generous table, returning each time with a heaped-up plate in their hands, and in their minds a distinct, though silent, satisfaction that the Sollis were doing the thing in a suitable style. Every one made a splendid square meal; but Bedstemor took the prize for appetite. She was very happy and excited. Hers was the only voice heard. As Knutty said, it was refreshing to know that there was at least one cheerful person amongst those solemn one hundred and twenty guests! Knutty herself rose to the occasion with characteristic readiness. She ate nobly without intermission, as though she had been attending Norwegian peasant-funerals all her life; and she gave a mischievous wink to Gerda and Katharine every time Bedstemor rose from her seat and strode masterfully to the table in search of further fodder. No one offered any courtesy to any one else. It seemed to be the custom that each person should look after herself; and there was a look of puzzled amusement on some of the faces when Katharine attempted to wait on one or two of the guests. Nevertheless, the attention, once understood, was vaguely appreciated; and the pretty little old lady whom Katharine had found in her bedroom, soon allowed herself to be petted and spoiled by the visitors. Indeed she abandoned all her relatives, and always sat with Knutty.

This meal came to an end about four o'clock, when there was another relay of coffee. Some of the guests strolled about and picked red-currants off the bushes in Bedstemor's garden. Knutty found her way to the cowhouse and learnt from her favourite Mette that all the servants and cotters were having a splendid meal too.

"Ja, ja," Mette said, "I have eaten enough to last for two years. And the young ox tasted lovely! Didst thou eat of him? Ak, there is old Kari crying her heart out because the young ox had to be killed. Thou knowest she was fond of him. Ak, nobody has cried for Bedstefar as much as old Kari has cried for the young ox. And she wouldn't eat an inch of him—only think of that, Fröken, isn't it remarkable?"

"It certainly is," said Knutty, with a twinkle in her eye. "For most of us generally do eat up the people we love best—beginning with the tenderest part of them."

For one moment Mette looked aghast, and then light broke in upon her.

"Nei da," she said brightly, "but as long as we don't really eat them, it doesn't matter, does it?"

"It is supposed not to matter," answered Knutty, moving off to comfort old Kari, who was not only mourning for the young black ox, but also continuing to feel personally aggrieved over her disappointment about Clifford's ghost.

"Ak, ak, the young black ox!" cried Kari, when she saw her Danish friend. "Eat him? Not I, dear Fröken, I was fond of him. Ak, ak!"

"Be comforted, Kari," said Knutty soothingly. "You loved him and were good to him and didn't eat him up. What more do you want?"

"Will you tell me whether he tasted good?" asked Kari softly. "I should like to know that he was a success."

"He was delicious," said Knutty, "and I heard the Praest and the doctor speaking in praise of him. Of course they must know."

Kari nodded as if reassured, and disappeared into the cowhouse, Tante's concert-room, wiping her moist eyes with her horny hands. She came back again, and stood for a moment in the doorway.

"I cannot believe that it was not the Englishman's ghost," she said, shaking her head mysteriously. "I felt it was a ghost. I trembled all over, and my knees gave way."

"But you surely believe now that my Englishman is alive, don't you, Kari?" asked Tante, who was much amused.

"I cannot be sure," replied Kari, and she disappeared again; but Tante, knowing that she always carried on a conversation in this weird manner, waited for her sudden return.

"That is Ragnhild's sweetheart," she said in a whisper, pointing to a tall fair young man who had come down with another guest to take a look at the horses. "Nei, nei, don't you tell her I told you. He is a rich Gaardmand from the other side of the valley."

"But I have seen them together, and they don't speak a word to each other," Knutty said.

"Why should they?" asked old Kari. "There is nothing to say."

And she disappeared finally.

"My goodness!" thought Knutty, "if all nations only spoke when there was anything worth saying, what a gay world it would be."

Then Tante took a look at the guests' horses, some of them in the stable, and others tethered outside, and all eating steadily of the Sollis' corn. For the hospitality of the Gaard extended to the animals too; and it would have been a breach of etiquette if any of the guests had brought with them sacks of food for the horses; just as it would have been a breach of etiquette not to have contributed to the collection of funeral-cakes which were now being arranged on the table in the dining-room, together with jellies, fancy creams, and many kinds of home-made wines. Alan was sent by Mor Inga to summon Tante to a private view of this remarkable show. Some of the cakes had crape attached to them and bore Bedstefar's initials in icing. They were of all imaginable shapes, and looked rich and tempting. Tante's mouth watered.

"Ak," she cried, "if I could only eat them all at one mouthful!"

Every right-minded guest had the same desire when the room was thrown open to the public. And all set to work stolidly to fulfil a portion of their original impulse. Bedstemor again distinguished herself; but Alan ran her very close. Katharine and Gerda did not do badly. In fact, no one did badly at this most characteristic part of the day's feasting. Then every one went up and thanked Solli and Mor Inga, saying, "Tak for Kagen" (Thanks for the cakes). Indeed, one had to go up and say "Tak" for everything: after wine and coffee, dinner, dessert, and supper, which began about nine o'clock. No sooner was one meal finished than preparations were immediately made for the next, etiquette demanding that variety should be the order of the day. The supper-table was decorated with fresh leaves arranged after a fresh scheme, the centre being occupied by all the funeral gifts of butter, some of them in picturesque shapes of Saeters and Staburs.

Cold meats, dried meats of every kind, cold fish, dried fish, smoked fish, and cheeses innumerable were the menu of this evening meal. The guests did astonishing justice to it in their usual business-like fashion; perhaps here and there Knutty remarked 'an appetite that failed,' but, on the whole, there was no falling off from the excellent average. Bedstemor was tired, and was persuaded to go to bed. But she said up to the very end that she was bra', bra', and had had a happy day. Her old face looked a little sad, and Knutty thought that perhaps she was fretting for Bedstefar after all. Perhaps she was.

So the first day's feasting in honour of Bedstefar came to an end. The second day was a repetition of the first, except that the guests began to be more cheerful. Those who lived in the actual neighbourhood, had gone away over night and returned in the morning; but most of them had been quartered in the Gaard itself. Knutty talked to every one, and continued her flirtation with the ancient Gaardmand of ninety years, who, so she learnt, had been noted as an adept at the Halling dance. She had made him tell her of the good old times and ancient customs, and once she succeeded in drawing him on to speak of the Huldre. She had to use great tact in her questionings; but, as she always said to herself, she had been born with some tact, and had acquired a good deal more in dealing with two generations of icebergs. So she sat amongst these reserved Norwegians, and little by little, with wonderful patience and perseverance, dug a hole in their frozen heart-springs. They liked her. They said to Mor Inga:

"The fat old Danish lady is bra', bra'."

And Mor Inga whispered to her:

"Thou art a good one. They all like thee. There was a calf born last night. We have settled to call it after thy name—Knuttyros."

"I am sure I do not deserve such an honour," Tante said, trying to be humble.

"Yes, thou dost," Mor Inga answered with grave dignity, as she went off to her duties as hostess.

But Tante did not understand until Clifford explained to her that a great mark of Norwegian approval had been bestowed on her.

"Then I suppose it is like your new order of merit in England," she said; "'honour without insult.' Ah, Clifford, I hope some day, in the years to come, that your name will be found amongst the favoured few."

"Not very likely, Knutty," he said. "I belong only to the rank and file of patient workers and gropers, whose failures and mistakes prepare the way for the triumph of brighter spirits."

"Sniksnak!" said Knutty contemptuously. "Don't pretend to me that you are content with that. And don't talk to me about patience. I hate the word. It is almost as bad as balance and self-control. Balanced people, self-controlled people, patient people indeed! Get along with them! The only suitable place for them is in a herbarium amongst the other dried plants."

"But, Tante," said Gerda, who always took Knutty seriously, "there would and could be no science without patience."

"And a good thing too!" replied Knutty recklessly, winking at Katharine.

"Tante's head is turned by the unexpected honour of being chosen as god-mother to a Norwegian cow," Clifford said. "We must bear with her."

Knutty laughed. She was always glad when her Englishman teased her. She watched him as he went back into the hall and sat down near the doctor and clergyman.

"My Clifford begins to look younger again," she thought.

She watched him when Alan came and stood by him for a moment, and then went off with Jens.

"Yes," she thought, "it is all right with my icebergs now."

She glanced across to Katharine, who was doing her best to make friends with the women in the parlour.

"Dear one," she thought, "will you remember, I wonder, that I told you he will never be able to speak unless you help him?"

She watched her when Alan came in his shy way and sat down near her.

"Dear one," she thought, "the other iceberg is in love with you too, and I am not jealous. What a wonderful old woman I am! Or is it you who are wonderful, bringing love and happiness to us all? Ah, that's it!"

So the second day's feasting in honour of Bedstefar came to an end; and on the third day the men played quoits in the courtyard, and smoked and drank more lustily. The Sorenskriver, who had had various quiet disputes on the previous days with the doctor, the Foged, and the Storthingsmand, now broke forth into violent discussions with the same opponents, and was pronounced by Knutty to be at the zenith of happiness because he was at the zenith of disagreeableness! All the men were enjoying themselves in one way or another; but the women sat in the big parlour looking a little tired and bored. It was Katharine who suggested that Gerda should sing to them.

"Sing to them their own songs," she said. "You will make them so happy. If I could do anything to amuse them, I would. But if one does not know the language, what can one do?"

"You have your own language, kjaere," Gerda answered, "the language of kindness, and they have all understood it. If Tante was not so conceited, she would know that you have really been sharing with her the approval of the company."

"Nonsense," laughed Katharine. "Why, they think I am a barbarian woman from a country where there are no mountains and no Saeters! Come now, sing to them and to me. I love to hear your voice."

"So does my Ejnar," said Gerda. "Ak, I wish he were here! He would pretend not to care; but he would listen on the sly. Well, well, it is good to be without him. One has one's freedom."

So she sat down and sang. She began with a little Swedish song:

"Om dagen vid mitt arbete" ("At daytime when I'm working").

"That is one of my Ejnar's favourites," she said, turning to Katharine.

The company began to be mildly interested. It was not the Norwegian habit of mind to be interested at once. Still, one or two faces betrayed a faint sign of pleasure; and one of the men peeped in from the hall. Then she sang another Swedish song, "Oh, hear, thou young Dora." It was so like Gerda to feel in a Swedish mood when she ought to have been feeling Norwegian.

The company seemed pleased. They nodded at each other.

Another man peeped in from the hall. Bedstemor strode masterfully into the room, and sat down near the little pocket edition of herself.

"That is another of my Ejnar's favourites," Gerda whispered, turning to Katharine again.

She paused for a moment, thinking. No one spoke.

Then she chose a Norwegian song—Aagot's mountain-song. This was it:

There was a stir of pleasure in the company. Mor Inga and Solli slipped in. Then she sang one of Kjerulf's songs, "Over de höje Fjelde."[U]

The Sorenskriver came in and sat down by Katharine.

"Yes," he said, more to himself than to her, "I remember having those thoughts when I was a young boy. What should I find over the mountains? Ak, and what does one find in exchange for all one's yearning?"

Gerda had sung this beautifully. The natural melancholy of her voice suited to perfection the weird sadness of Norwegian music. The company was gratified. They knew and loved that song well, and some of them joined in timidly at the end of the last verse. The old Gaardmand crept into the room and sat near Knutty.

"I could sing as finely as I could dance the Halling," he said to Knutty, with a grim smile.

"Thou shouldst have heard me sing," said Bedstemor to Knutty. "I had a beautiful voice."

"And so had I," said the pocket edition of Bedstemor, clutching at Knutty's dress.

"Yes," answered Knutty sympathetically, "I can well believe it."

And she added to herself:

"We all had a voice, or think we had. It amounts to the same when the past is past. A most convenient thing, that past—that kind of past which only crops up when you want it!"

Then Gerda sang:

"Come haul the water, haul the wood."

This time the audience which, unbeknown to Gerda, had grown to large proportions, joined in lustily, led by Bedstemor's cracked old voice. She beat time, too, still playing the rôle of leading lady. Katharine, sitting by Gerda's side, but a little in front of the piano, saw that the hall was full of eager listeners, and that at the back of the guests were the servants of the Gaard, including Thea and the dramatic Mette, and some of the cotters, and old Kari. The music which they knew and loved had gathered them all together from courtyard, kitchen, and cowhouse. There was no listlessness on any face now: an unwilling animation, born of real pleasure, lit up the countenances of both men and women—an animation all the more interesting, so Katharine thought, because of its reluctance and shyness. It reminded her of Alan's shyness, of Clifford's too; she remembered that Clifford had said to her several times:

"I believe I am a Norwegian in spirit if not in body; I have always loved the North and yearned after it."

She glanced at him and caught him looking fixedly at her. He was thinking:

"To-morrow, when she and I go off to Peer Gynt's home together, shall I be able to speak to her as I spoke to her in my dream up at the Saeter?"

He turned away when he met her glance, and retired at once into himself.

Then Gerda sang other Norwegian songs, every one joining in with increasing enjoyment and decreasing shyness: songs about cows, pastures, Saeters, sweethearts, and Huldres, a curious mixture of quaint, even humorous words, and melancholy music.

Finally the Sorenskriver, scarcely waiting until the voices had died away, stood up, a commanding figure, a typical rugged Norwegian, and started the national song:

"Yes, we cherish this our country."

Long afterwards Katharine remembered that scene and that singing.

No voice was silent, no heart was without its thrill, no face without its sign of pride of race and country.

CHAPTER XIX.
PEER GYNT'S STUE.

The next morning all the guests went away. They were packed in their carioles, gigs, and carriages, and their cake-baskets were returned to them, etiquette demanding that each guest should take away a portion of another guest's funeral-cake offering. Ragnhild's sweetheart was the last to go. Knutty watched with lynx eyes to see if there was going to be any outward and visible sign of the interest which they felt in each other; but she detected none.

"Well, they must be very much in love with each other," she said to Gerda, "for there is not a single flaw in their cloak of sulkiness. Ak, ak, kjaere, I am glad the funeral is over. I have not borne up as bravely as Bedstemor; but then, of course, I have not lost a husband. That makes a difference. Now don't look shocked. I know quite well I ought not to have said that. All the same, Bedstemor's strength and spirits and appetite have been something remarkable. I believe she would like a perpetual funeral going on at the Gaard. And how lustily she sang last evening! That reminds me, you sang beautifully yesterday, and were most kind and gracious to the whole company. I think Mor Inga ought to have made you the godmother of the calf. I was proud of my Gerda. I am proud of my Gerda, although I do tease her."

"Never mind," said Gerda, "was sich liebt, sich neckt. And I am not jealous about the calf. I am a little jealous about the Englishwoman sometimes. Tante loves her."

"Yes," said Tante simply, "I love her, but quite differently from the way in which I love my botanical specimens. My botanists have their own private herbarium in my heart."

Gerda smiled.

"I like her too, Tante," she said. "You know I was not very jealous of her when my Ejnar began to pay her attentions."

"Because you knew they would not last," laughed Knutty. "You need never be anxious about him. He is not a sensible human being. He won't do anything worse than elope with a plant. Any way, he cannot elope with Miss Frensham just now, as he is safe in the Dovre mountains making love to the Ranunculus glacialis!"

"She told me she was going to Peer Gynt's stue with the Kemiker," Gerda said after a pause. "I wish I could have gone too. But my ankle is too bad."

"Ah, what a good thing!" remarked Knutty. "That gives them a chance. How I wish he would elope with her! But he won't, the silly fellow. I know him. If you see him, tell him I said he was to elope with her instantly. I am going off to the cowhouse to have a talk with my dramatic Mette and to learn the cowhouse gossip about the funeral-feast. So farewell for the present."

"I cannot think why Mette is such a favourite with you, Tante," Gerda said. "You know she isn't a respectable girl at all."

"Kjaere, don't wave the banner; for pity's sake, don't wave the banner," Tante said. "Who is respectable, I should like to know? I am sure I am not, and you are not. That is to say, we may be respectable in one direction; but that does not make up the sum-total. There, go and think that over, and be sure and keep your ankle bad; and if you see Alan, tell him to follow me to the cowhouse, for I want him to do something for me."

And so it came to pass that Clifford and Katharine were able to steal off alone to Peer Gynt's stue. They had tried several times during the funeral-feasting to escape from the company; but Mor Inga liked to have all the guests around her, and it would have seemed uncourteous if any of them had deliberately withdrawn themselves. But now they were free to go where they wished without breaking through the strict Norwegian peasant etiquette. They had long since planned this Peer Gynt expedition. It was Bedstemor who originally suggested it to Clifford. She was always saying that he must go to Peer Gynt's stue; and her persistence led him to believe that there really was some old house in the district which local tradition claimed to be Peer Gynt's childhood's home; where, as in Ibsen's wonderful poem, he, a wild, idle, selfish fellow from early years upwards, lived with his mother Ãse. Clifford had not been able to find out to his entire satisfaction whether or not this particular stue had been known as Peer Gynt's house before the publication of Ibsen's poem. Bedstemor had always known it as such, and gave most minute instructions for finding it. The old Gaardmand with whom Knutty had flirted said he had always known it as Peer Gynt's actual home; and even old Kari, when questioned, said, "Ja, Peer Gynt lived up over there." Bedstemor had a few vague stories to tell about Peer Gynt, and she ended up with, "Ja, ja, he was a wild fellow, who did wild things, and saw and heard wonderful things."

So apparently Peer Gynt was a real person who had had his home somewhere in this part of the great Gudbrandsdal; and Ibsen had probably caught up some of the stories about the real man, and woven them into the network of his hero's character. But, as Knutty said, the only thing which really mattered was the indisputable fact that Ibsen had placed the scene of three acts of his poem in the Gudbrandsdal and the mountains round about, and that they—herself, Clifford, Katharine, every one of them—were there in the very atmosphere, mental and physical, of the great poem itself.

"And the stue stands for an idea if not for a fact," she said, "like Hamlet's grave in my belovèd Elsinore. Go and enjoy; and forget, for once, to be accurate."

He thought of Knutty's words as he and Katharine left the Gaard and began to climb down the steep hillside on their way to the valley; for Peer Gynt's home was perched on another mountain-ridge, and they had first to descend from their own heights, gain the valley, walk along by the glacier-river, and pass by the old brown church before they came to the steep path which would lead them up to their goal. He said to himself:

"Yes, Peer Gynt's stue stands for an idea in more senses than one. Day after day, when I have not been able to open my heart to her, I have thought that perhaps I should be able to break through my silence on our pilgrimage to Peer Gynt's stue."

The morning was fair and fresh; summer was passing; there was a touch of crispness in the air which suggested frost and 'iron nights,' dreaded by the peasants before the harvest should have been gathered in. Katharine and Clifford kept to the course of the stream, which was a quick, though a steep, way down to the saw-mill, beautifully situated near a foss of the glacier-river, the roar and rush of which they heard up at the Solli Gaard. There was a bridge across this river, and they stood there watching the tumbling mass of water, and recalling the morning when they had passed over to the other side on their way to the Saeters. The little Landhandleri across the bridge was being besieged by no less than four customers. Their carioles were fastened to a long rail outside the queer little shop which contained everything mortal man could want, from rough butter-boxes and long china pipes to dried cod and overalls.

"I never see these places without thinking of the isolated shops dumped down in lonely districts out in the west of America," Katharine said. "Some of them were kept by Norwegians too."

"They have had their training in isolation here, you see," Clifford said, "and so go out knowing how to cater for isolated people. And they make a small fortune quickly and return. At least some of them return, those in whom the love of country outweighs everything else in life."

"I should be one of those," Katharine said. "I should always yearn to return."

"I remember your saying you would like to bring all the broken-hearted exiles home," he said.

"Yes," she said, "I would."

"You have a heart of pity," he said, turning to her.

"I am sorry for those who have lost their country," she said. "I have seen them suffer. If I were a millionaire, I would find out some of the worst cases, and give them back their country and the means to enjoy it, or the opportunity of dying in it."

So they talked or were silent as the mood seized them. They were happy, and frankly glad to be together alone. They left the bridge, passed along the main road, through fragrant fir-woods, and came to a most picturesque spot where two rivers, one of them the glacier-river, met and rushed on together as one. They crossed this long bridge, and found themselves on the other side of the main valley. Here they looked back and could discern the big Solli Gaard, perched proudly on the opposite mountain-ridge. Then their way lay along the easy road by the winding river. It retreated from them, returned, retreated. The sun jewelled the clear part of it with diamonds, and the strange milky glacier part of it with opals. Finally it left them, and they could scarcely reconcile themselves to its departure, but strolled back once more to enjoy its gracious company. But at last they said farewell to it, and went on to the old brown church, at the back of which they expected, from Bedstemor's instructions, to find the steep path leading up to Peer Gynt's stue. They halted, to see the sunburnt old church, and to rest. Katharine was struck by its beautiful proportions. Rough and without any features of special architectural interest, it presented a harmony in itself which was arresting. She made the remark; and Clifford, who knew many things about the North, was able to tell her that this was characteristic of the Norwegian churches of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The date of this church was the middle of the eighteenth century. It was rather a rich, well-cared-for church from a Norwegian point of view, and it was full of interest for strangers. The painted and decorated pews, with the rich peasants' names in floriated design, attracted Katharine. The Sollis' pew was, of course, one of them. The pulpit was elaborately carved, and was painted and gilded in generous fashion. There was a rood-screen which bore the arms of Norway, painted also in flamboyant style; and a shelf on the top supported eight or ten figures of personages in Scripture lore, with their symbols. Some of these figures were almost grotesque. It was difficult to believe that they were of the same recent date as the church. The altarpiece, the Last Supper, carved and painted, bore the date 1740; yet in conception it looked like a piece of work from the Middle Ages, and Dutch in character. Quainter still were the weird pictures hanging on the walls, all of them gifts of pious people. The subjects were of course religious ones: Jacob wrestling with the Angel, the Passage of the Red Sea, the Garden of Gethsemane. They all dated back to the early part of the eighteenth century, and were most primitive in idea and execution, testifying silently, not only to the piety of the donors, but to the uninfluenced isolation of the interior of Norway. One of them had the inscription, "To the honour of God and for the ornament of the church is this picture given by a rich and pious girl at a cost of three dollars of the realm!"

Katharine and Clifford examined these queer things, and finally sat down in the Sollis' grand pew. The world was beginning to be even as this old brown church—empty, save for them. He was thinking, as he sat by her side, how little she, with her free, open-hearted nature, could guess at the grim and almost insurmountable difficulties of a prisoner of silence like himself. She would never know how many times he had tried to begin the story which he wished passionately to tell her. But each time that he had failed, he at least knew that he was gaining courage. He did not realise that Katharine had retreated into herself since that anxious day at the Skyds-station; for Mrs Stanhope's words up at the Saeter had been echoing in her ears. She was not the woman to allow her own impulses to be checked by the opinion of Mrs Stanhope. Her most accentuated feeling about Mrs Stanhope was indignation; nevertheless, the malignant words of that bigot had engendered a vague shyness in Katharine's mind, which held her back from helping Clifford. And also, she was passing through a phase of emotional passiveness, which Nature, in her wisdom, insists on, after any great and generous giving out of sympathy, love, and anxious concern. At such moments even the most reckless spendthrifts of self can give nothing. They wait. And if no one ministers to them, they pass out into the darkness of the night to find recovery. So Katharine waited; and they sat on together in the Sollis' decorated pew, cut off from the outside world, and silent. The moment of liberty did not come to the prisoner then in the old brown church. It almost came, but not quite.

When they left the church, they took the steep path accurately described by Bedstemor. It was steep and rough, and Clifford turned to help Katharine over some of the difficult bits; but she was as active as he, and not at all breathless. She was astonished that there should be no easier road than this one up to several old Gaards which they skirted in their ascent. It seemed impossible for the farm-people to bring any heavy loads up or down such a rough path. Clifford told her that it was characteristic of the Norwegians of a previous generation.

"In former days," he said, "they made a road, any kind of road, straight to their goal, over and through any difficulties. The Sorenskriver thinks it a bad sign that they now make easy and circuitous ones. He would like this uncompromising one. He would think that there still remained some of the old rugged stubbornness in the Norwegian character, and some of its simple hardihood."

"We can tell him about it," Katharine said, smiling at the thought of the Sorenskriver. She was thinking what great good luck they had had in getting off without him!

So they mounted higher and higher, pausing now and then to look down at the valley, which on this side had a different appearance from that to which they were now affectionately accustomed from the Solli Gaard. Here the valley was much narrower, and the view, though beautiful, was less comprehensive, but more intimate. From the Solli Gaard they saw the great Gudbrandsdal as a vision. From the hillside behind the old brown church they saw it as a human reality. They noticed, too, that the land was more encumbered with rocks and stones in this district than in the region round about the Solli Gaard; although there also were outward and visible signs of the patient labour with which the Norwegians struggled against a hard nature to make their country productive. But here the battle proclaimed itself even more eloquently; and Katharine, who noticed everything, spoke of it.

"No wonder they are a melancholy people, if they have had to struggle so hard to get so little," she said.

"It is not that which has made them melancholy," Clifford replied. "It is the loneliness."

He was silent for a moment, and then went on:

"Certain nations seem set apart for loneliness, even as certain people. Nature has willed it so. Have you not seen how in active bustling communities there are always several detached persons who prefer to go away into the wilderness? They belong there. It is their native soil, even if they have been born in crowded cities. I believe my father was one of those persons."

"I have seen them out in Colorado," Katharine said. And she added impulsively:

"But you are not one of them."

"No," he said without looking up at her; "I am not one of them. I was forced into my wilderness."

And again she could not help him. For the very life of her, she could not have said to him:

"Tell me about your wilderness, and I will tell you about mine."

In a few minutes they came to a Gaard hanging over the hillside, which Clifford thought, from Bedstemor's description, must be Peer Gynt's homestead. He hurried on to inquire, and soon came back to the great rock where Katharine was resting.

"Yes," he said, "we have reached our destination. And that is supposed to be Peer Gynt's house—that old stue there. The other buildings making up the Gaard are newer, as you can see. The Gaardmand's wife says many people come to visit it."

So there they were, at last, at Peer Gynt's home, perched up on high, looking straight down on the valley and the river—a wild, isolated spot, fit abode for a wild, restless spirit. The Gaardmand's wife showed them over the old stue, which was very much like others they had seen, built of great tree-trunks, and black with age outside, and mouldy with age within; and when they had looked and looked, each of them remembering Knutty's injunction to enjoy, believe, and to be seized by the "spirit of place," she took them into the courtyard, and pointed out another old building used as stables.

"Peer Gynt was buried here," she said. "He was too wicked to be buried in the churchyard."

They lingered there for a long time, held in very truth by the spirit of place. Clifford knew his 'Peer Gynt' well, and Katharine, who had read it in English, understood a little of its real significance. He, knowing its whole scope from beginning to end, was able to make the poem real to her. He told her that Peer Gynt, brought up by his mother Ãse on legends and fairy tales, was typical to Ibsen's mind of the Norwegian nation, brought up on Sagas, and at the moment when the poem was written, not able to put away phantasms, and awake to the realities of life. He admired the poem intensely, and seemed delighted that she was interested in all he had to tell her about it. And he was moved at being in its very atmosphere. He had forgotten his doubts about the genuineness of the place.

"Cannot you see him coming down from the mountains after one of his escapades," he said, "his mother standing scolding him, and then listening entranced to his fantastic stories? Can't you see him seizing his mother when she was a nuisance to him, carrying her over the river and putting her on the grass-roof of the corn-house, where she could not interfere with him? Was there ever such a fellow? And there is the river—the very river!"

He pointed to it with almost a child's eagerness.

"He must have crossed there, you see, on his way to the wedding at which he stole the bride and took her away into the mountains," he said. "And where was it, I wonder, that he used to lie in the woods, dreaming his dreams of action and achievement which never came to anything? Perhaps yonder, sometimes, in that little copse over there."

Then he turned once more to the stue.

"And to think that there, actually there, poor Ãse died," he said. "Don't you remember how, even at her deathbed, he could not face the reality of the moment, but buoyed her and himself up with pitiful romancing? I can see the whole scene as I never saw it before."

It was a long time before they tore themselves away, and then they did not go far. They sat down by some stones outside the Gaard enclosure, still talking about Peer Gynt.

"The poem always stirs me," said Clifford. "I know nothing in literature which ever took a greater hold on me. It may be partly because Knutty taught me to know and understand the Northern mind. But the more I read it, the more I see that it is not typical of the Northern temperament only. Peer Gynt stands for us all, whether we hail from the North, the South, the East, the West; for all of us who cover up realities with fantasies."

"But do we not all have to help ourselves with make-believe, more or less?" Katharine said. "If we went through life doing nothing but facing facts, we should be intolerable to ourselves and other people. Surely now and then we need to rest on fantasy?"

She was silent a moment, and then went on:

"We make a fantastic picture to ourselves that we are wanted in the world, that we have work to do, a call to answer, things and people needing us, and us only. If we did not do that where should we be?"

He turned to her suddenly:

"Have you felt that too?" he said.

"Yes," she answered.

"So have I," he said.

"But you had, and have always had, your work," Katharine said, "your own definite career, which no one, nothing, could take from you."

And as soon as the words had left her lips, she remembered that Knutty was always saying that if ever a man had had his career marred and checked by others, that man was Clifford Thornton. She could have bitten her tongue out. She did not know that she had helped him by what she had said.

He drew a little nearer to her.

"There is a passage from 'Peer Gynt' which has always haunted me," he said: