By nine o’clock everything was arranged, and they came back to the sitting-room, where Frithiof had lighted the pretty little lamp, and was writing to Herr Sivertsen to say he would be glad of more work.
“Come,” said Sigrid, “the evening wont be complete without some music, and I am dying to try that piano. What shall be the first thing we play in our new home, Swanhild?”
“‘For Norge,’” said the little girl promptly.
“Do you know we had quite a discussion about that at Rowan Tree House the other night,” said Sigrid. “They were all under the impression that it was an English air, and only knew it as a glee called “The Hardy Norseman.” Mr. Boniface calls Frithiof his Hardy Norseman because he got well so quickly.”
“Come and sing, Frithiof, do come,” pleaded Swanhild, slipping her hand caressingly into his and drawing him toward the piano. And willingly enough he consented, and in their new home in this foreign land they sang together the stirring national song—
“To Norway, mother of the brave,
We crown the cup of pleasure,
And dream our freedom come again
And grasp the vanished treasure.
When once the mighty task’s begun,