“I wonder whether Swanhild will say the same?” said Frithiof with a smile; “here she comes, hurrying home alone. Will you wait by the river and let me just tell her my good news?”
He walked along the road to meet his sister, who, spite of added years and inches, still retained much of her childlikeness.
“Why are you all alone?” he said.
“Oh, there is no fun,” said Swanhild. “When Roy and Sigrid are out on a holiday they are just like lovers, so I came back to you.”
“What will you say when I tell you that I am betrothed,” he said teasingly.
She looked up in his face with some alarm.
“You are only making fun of me,” she protested.
“On the contrary, I am stating the most serious of facts. Come, I want your congratulations.”
“But who are you betrothed to?” asked Swanhild, bewildered. “Can it be to Madale? And, oh dear, what a horrid time to choose for it—you will be just no good at all. I really do think you might have waited till the end of the tour.”
“It might possibly have been managed if you had spoken sooner,” said Frithiof, with mock gravity, “but you come too late—the deed is done.”