rising and moving away towards the fire. Peder’s pipe was smoked out, and he was going for more tobacco to the place where tobacco was always to be found—in a little recess above the fireplace. He felt his way carefully, that he might not interfere with the dancers, or be jostled by them; but he had not far to go. One friend begged to be sent for anything he wanted; another, with a quicker eye, brought him tobacco; and a third led him to his seat again. All looked with wonder at M. Kollsen, surprised that he, Peder’s companion at that moment, young and blessed with eyesight, could let the blind old man leave his seat for such a reason. M. Kollsen whiffed away, however, quite unconscious of what everybody was thinking.

“This waltz,” said Peder, when the dancers had begun again, “does not seem to go easily. There is something amiss. I think it is in the music that the fault lies. My boy’s clarionet goes well enough; no fear of Oddo’s being out. Pray, sir, who plays the violin at this moment?”

“A fellow who looks as if he did not like his business. He is frowning with his red brows as if he would frown out the lights.”

“His red brows! O, then it is Hund. I was thinking it would be hard upon him, poor fellow, if he had to play to-night; yet, not so hard as if he had to dance. It is weary work dancing with the heels when the heart is too heavy to move. You may have heard, sir, for everyone knows it, that Hund wanted to have young Rolf’s place, and, some say, Erica herself. Is she dancing, sir, if I may ask?”

“Yes, with Rolf. What sort of a man is Rolf—with regard to these superstitions, I mean? Is he as foolish as Erica—always frightened about something?”

“No, indeed. It is to be wished that Rolf was not so light as he is—so inconsiderate about these matters. Rolf has his troubles and his faults; but they are not of that kind.”

“Enough,” said M. Kollsen, with a voice of authority. “I rejoice to hear that he is superior to the popular delusions. As to his troubles and his faults, they may be left for me to discover all in good time.”

“With all my heart, sir. They are nobody’s business but his own, and, may be, Erica’s. Rolf has a good heart, and I doubt not Ulla and I shall have great comfort in him. He lives with us, sir, from this night forwards. There is no fear that he will wish us in our graves, though we stand between him and his marriage.”

“That must be rather a painful consideration to you.”

“Not at all, sir, at present. Ulla and I were all the happier, we think, to this day, for having had four such years as these young people have before them to know one another in, and grow suitable in notions and habits, and study to please one another. By the time Rolf and Erica are what we were, one or both of us will be underground, and Rolf will have, I am certain, the pleasant feeling of having done his duty by us. It is all as it should be, sir; and I pray that they may live to say at our age what Ulla and I can say at the same season of our lives.”

The pastor made no answer. He had not heard the last few words; for what Peder said of being underground had plunged him into a reverie about Peder’s funeral sermon, which he should, of course, have to preach. He was pondering how he should at once do justice to Peder’s virtues and mark his own disapprobation of the countenance Peder gave to the superstitions of the region in which he lived. He must keep in view the love and respect in which the old man was held by everybody, and yet he must bear witness against the great fault above mentioned. He composed two or three paragraphs in his imagination which he thought would do, and then committed them to memory. He was roused from this employment by a loud laugh from the man whose funeral he was meditating, and saw that Peder was enjoying life at present as much as the youngest, with a glass of punch in his hand, and a group of old men and women round him recalling the jests of fifty years ago.

“How goes it, Rolf?” said his master, who, having done his duty in the dancing-room, was now making his way to the card-tables, in another apartment, to see how his guests there were entertained. Thinking that Rolf looked very absent, as he stood, in the pause of the dance, in silence by Erica’s side, Erlingsen clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “How goes it? Make your friends merry.”

Rolf bowed and smiled, and his master passed on.

“How goes it?” repeated Rolf to Erica, as he looked earnestly into her face. “Is all going on well, Erica?”

“Certainly. I suppose so. Why not?” she replied. “If you see anything wrong,—anything omitted, be sure and tell me. Madame Erlingsen would be very sorry. Is there anything forgotten, Rolf?”

“I think you have forgotten what the day is: that is all. Nobody that looked at you, love, would fancy it to be your own day. You look anything but merry. Hardly a smile from you to-night! And that is a great omission.”

“O, Rolf, there is something so much better than merriment!”

“Yes, love; but where is it? Not in your heart to-night, Erica.”

“Yes, indeed, Rolf.”

“You look as dull,—as sad,—you and Hund, as if—”

“Hund!” repeated Erica, glancing around the room for Hund, and not seeing him till her lover reminded her that Hund was the musician. “Hund does seem dull enough to be sure,” said she, smiling; “I hope I do not often look like that.”

“I am more sorry for him than you are, I see,” said Rolf, brightening when he found how entirely Hund had been absent from her thoughts. “I am more sorry for Hund than you are: and with good reason, for I know what the happiness is that he has missed, poor fellow! But yet I think you might feel a little more for him. It would show that you know how to value love.”

“Indeed I am very sorry for him; but more for his disappointment about the house than any other. To-day once over, he will soon fix his love on somebody else. Perhaps we shall be dancing on his betrothment-day before the year is out.”

“Then I hope his girl will look merrier than you do to-night,” muttered Rolf, with a sigh. “O, Erica! I wish you would trust me. I could take care of you, and make you quite happy, if you would only believe it. Ah! I know what that look means. I know you love me, and all that; but you are always tormenting yourself—”

“I think I know one who is cleverer still at tormenting himself,” said Erica, with a smile. “Come, Rolf, no more tormenting of ourselves or one another! No more of that after to-day! What is to-day worth, if it is not to put an end to all doubts of one another?”

“But where is the use of that, if you still will not believe that I can keep off all trouble from you—that nothing in the universe shall touch you to your hurt, while—”

“O, hush! hush!” said Erica, turning pale and red at the presumption of this speech. “See, they are waiting for us. One more round before supper.”

And in the whirl of the waltz she tried to forget the last words Rolf had spoken; but they rang in her ears; and before her eyes were images of Nipen overhearing this defiance,—and the Water-sprite planning vengeance in its palace under the ice,—and the Mountain-Demon laughing in scorn, till the echoes shouted again,—and the Wood-Demon waiting only for summer to see how he could beguile the rash lover. Erica finished her dance; but when the company and the men of the household were seated at the supper-table, and she had to help her mistress and the young ladies to wait upon them, she trembled so that she could scarcely stand. It was so very wrong of Rolf to be always defying the spirits!

Long was the supper, and hearty was the mirth round the table. People in Norway have universally a hearty appetite,—such an appetite as we English have no idea of. Whether it is owing to the sharp climate, or to the active life led by all,—whatever may be the