pt occasionally one published
at the place where they were living. "Do you read no home newspapers?"
"Yes, when Father shows me them." Had not her father, had not Mrs.
Dawes, told her anything? "No." Why, she was famous now throughout the
whole of Norway. For this was the third portrait of her--or was it the
fourth? Anyhow it was the finest. It had been reproduced in the
illustrated newspapers; and also in an English art-magazine, the
_Studio_. Did she not know that? "No." The young people here were very
proud of her. They had put off their spring picnic and dance until she
came home.

"You are to be feted!"

"I?"

"The picnic is to be at Marielyst. One steamer goes from here, and
another comes from the places on the opposite side. Joergen Thiis planned
it all in Paris."

"Joergen Thiis?"

"Yes. Did he not tell you about it?"

"No."

As soon as the callers left, Mary went to her father, who was unpacking
some of the art treasures which were to remain in town.

"Father, is it the case that you sent my portraits to exhibitions?"

He smiled, and said: "Yes, my child, I did. And they have given pleasure
to many. I was asked to send them. They wrote and asked me each time."

He spoke in such a gentle voice, and Mary thought it so considerate of
him that he had not told her, and had forbidden Mrs. Dawes to
tell--probably Joergen Thiis too--that she did what she very seldom did,
went up to him and kissed him.

So this was what her father, Mrs. Dawes, and Joergen Thiis had so often
sat whispering about. This was why the home newspapers had been kept
from her. Everything had been planned--even to the proposal to travel
home at this particular moment! She almost began to like Joergen Thiis.

When they left for Krogskogen in the afternoon, a crowd of young people
assembled on the pier called: "Au revoir on Sunday!"

Mary was charmed with the view as they sailed along. The short half hour
was spent, as it were, in recognising one old acquaintance after
another. The new, or at least much altered, high road along the coast
was now finished. It looked remarkably well, especially where it cut
across the headlands, often through the rock. At Krogskogen it led, as
before, from the one point across the level to the other, passing close
to the landing-place and directly below the chapel and the churchyard.

And Krogskogen itself--how snugly it lay! She had remembered its
loneliness, but had forgotten how beautiful it was.