the young man said that his
name was Trond Vigfusson, that he had graduated at the University of
Christiania, and that his father had been a lieutenant in the army; but
both he and Trond's mother had died, when Trond was only a few years
old. Lage then told his guest Vigfusson something about his family, but
of the legend of Asathor and Saint Olaf he spoke not a word. And while
they were sitting there talking together, Aasa came and sat down at
Vigfusson's feet; her long golden hair flowed in a waving stream down
over her back and shoulders, there was a fresh, healthful glow on her
cheeks, and her blue, fathomless eyes had a strangely joyous, almost
triumphant expression. The father's gaze dwelt fondly upon her, and
the collegian was but conscious of one thought: that she was wondrously
beautiful. And still so great was his natural timidity and awkwardness
in the presence of women, that it was only with the greatest difficulty
he could master his first impulse to find some excuse for leaving her.
She, however, was aware of no such restraint.

"You said you came to gather song," she said; "where do you find it? for
I too should like to find some new melody for my old thoughts; I have
searched so long."

"I find my songs on the lips of the people," answered he, "and I write
them down as the maidens or the old men sing them."

She did not seem quite to comprehend that. "Do you hear maidens sing
them?" asked she, astonished. "Do you mean the troll-virgins and the
elf-maidens?"

"By troll-virgins and elf-maidens, or what the legends call so, I
understand the hidden and still audible voices of nature, of the dark
pine forests, the legend-haunted glades, and the silent tarns; and this
was what I referred to when I answered your question if I had ever heard
the forest sing."

"Oh, oh!" cried she, delighted, and clapped her hands like a child;
but in another moment she as suddenly grew serious again, and sat
steadfastly gazing into his eye, as if she were trying to look into his
very soul and there to find something kindred to her own lonely heart. A
minute ago her presence had embarrassed him; now, strange to say, he met
her eye, and smiled happily as he met it.

"Do you mean to say that you make your living by writing songs?" asked
Lage.

"The trouble is," answered Vigfusson, "that I make no living at all; but
I have invested a large capital, which is to yield its interest in the
future. There is a treasure of song h