Bertha’s father was a peasant, but he had, by his lumber trade, acquired what in Norway was called a very handsome fortune.  He received his guest with dignified reserve, and Ralph thought he detected in his eyes a lurking look of distrust.  “I know your errand,” that look seemed to say, “but you had better give it up at once.  It will be of no use for you to try.”

And after supper, as Ralph and Bertha sat talking confidingly with each other at the window, he sent his daughter a quick, sharp glance, and then, without ceremony, commanded her to go to bed.  Ralph’s heart gave a great thump within him; not because he feared the old man, but because his words, as well as his glances, revealed to him the sad history of these long, patient years.  He doubted no longer that the love which he had once so ardently desired was his at last:  and he made a silent vow that, come what might, he would remain faithful.

As he came down to breakfast the next morning, he found Bertha sitting at the window, engaged in hemming what appeared to be a rough kitchen towel.  She bent eagerly over her work, and only a vivid flush upon her cheek told him that she had noticed his coming.  He took a chair, seated himself opposite her, and bade her “good-morning.”  She raised her head, and showed him a sweet, troubled countenance, which the early sunlight illumined with a high spiritual beauty.  It reminded him forcibly of those pale, sweet-faced saints of Fra Angelico, with whom the frail flesh seems ever on the point of yielding to the ardent aspirations of the spirit.  And still even in this moment he could not prevent his eyes from observing that one side of her forefinger was rough from sewing, and that the whiteness of her arm, which the loose sleeves displayed, contrasted strongly with the browned and sunburned complexion of her hands.

After breakfast they again walked together on the beach, and Ralph, having once formed his resolution, now talked freely of the New World—­ of his sphere of activity there; of his friends and of his plans for the future; and she listened to him with a mild, perplexed look in her eyes, as if trying vainly to follow the flight of his thoughts.  And he wondered, with secret dismay, whether she was still the same strong, brave-hearted girl whom he had once accounted almost bold; whether the life in this narrow valley, amid a hundred petty and depressing cares, had not cramped her spiritual growth, and narrowed the sphere of her thought.  Or was she still the same, and was it only he who had changed?  At last he gave utterance to his wonder, and she answered him in those grave, earnest tones which seemed in themselves to be half a refutation of his doubts.