"The people now began to return, and were travelling day and night up the valley to their homes; but Hans Hili was not of the number. A few days and the folks at Hili were beginning to wonder at the young man's continued absence, when his father received a message from the proprietor of a Bönder lodging-house in Throndhjem, saying his son had gone out one evening during the fair, and had not come back. He had sold his horses; and a good sum of money, and certain goods he had purchased, were in the house, and in safe keeping. Hili was perplexed and frightened. He journeyed to the town, and found the lodging-house keeper, having got alarmed, had placed the matter in the hands of the police. The most painstaking investigation was made, every house and locality frequented by the country people during their visit to Throndhjem searched; but no trace of Hans Hili could be found. Then the unhappy father returned in despair to his farm. Karine by this time had somewhat recovered; but the doctor pronounced her on the verge of madness. She could give no account of what had occurred to her, or what had given her such a violent shock; but sat all day at the window above the farmhouse door, gazing towards the road, and crying as she does now, Whatever happens, he will come back.' Once Peder Halseth, at her father's request, came in to visit her, but she drove him from her, and her violence at his presence nearly reduced her to the same state as on the night of her first attack.

6

"News now came from Throndhjem. Some sailors working amongst the shipping at the mouth of the Nid had found the body of a man, and handed it over to the authorities. On examination it was discovered the poor fellow had been murdered, a deep gash, as if inflicted by a tolle knife, appearing on the breast. Hili was summoned to the inquiry; by the clothes he recognised his son. The mystery was cleared up; Hans had met his death at the hands of some miscreant, and the old man brought the remains back to the valley for interment. It was impossible to explain to Karine the circumstances connected with her lover's fate. Day by day she grew more imbecile, sitting for hours at the window chanting her melancholy song.

"A significant occurrence now took place. The very day the news of the finding of Hans' body ran through the valley like wildfire Peder Halseth disappeared. He was traced travelling south, and rumour had it he had been seen on board an emigrant ship at Christiania; be that as it may, he has never returned since.

"Time passed, old Anders died, and the widow, thinking a change would be beneficial to Karine, removed to Höisted, but the place is not far enough from the old home. Karine can see Aand Gaard and the valley from the great stone where she

constantly sits; and summer and winter never fail to find her on the watch."

My angling was not a success that day; my mind kept wandering on the strange tale I had heard; but on the morrow, the spate in the river having subsided, we resumed our campaign against the salmon, and fell into our usual mode of life.

A week or two and the fishing season closed; the days began visibly to shorten, yet we lingered in our rustic quarters, enjoying the excellent shooting the neighbourhood afforded. Often in the still hours of the night we heard the strange echo of the horse, and the rattle of light wheels, but now we were accustomed to the fact, and its constant repetition excited no comment.

Returning one evening from our sport at dusk, we found the usually quiet farm in great commotion. Eric, his family, and servants stood out in the yard talking excitedly, and gazing up the fjeld. "What is the matter?" I asked.

Karine, poor Karine, wandered down the hill this afternoon, and has been here for hours walking round and round the house, moaning and singing incoherently. Her people

have only just succeeded in inducing her to go home. See, there they are," and as I looked, several figures emerged from the wood on the hillside, and took the way to Höisted. "Karine has been very restless the last two or three days," replied Ole to our inquiries as to the circumstances that led the girl to our farm, "and, strange to say, she is always so about the anniversary of poor Hans's funeral. It seems as if she knew some event connected with her lover had happened at this date, and her mad grief receives an impetus."

The next day was insufferably hot for the time of year, and as we contemplated a long day's shooting on the morrow, we scarcely left our farm, and in the evening might have been seen seated round the doorway beneath the brilliant Scandinavian harvest moon. All was still, every one about the place had retired save ourselves; not a breath of air stirred the sombre branches of the fir woods, or quivered amidst the now scarlet foliage of the birch; silence, peace, reigned over the deep shadowy valley. Suddenly, through the calm night, there floated on our ears, from the hill above, the long, melancholy wail we had learned to know so well. It rose and fell, echoing to and fro amidst the rocks and through the dusky forest in sorrowful cadence, inexpressibly weird and sad. "Poor Karine," exclaimed Drake, "I scarcely think her friends keep sufficient watch and ward over her." And as the grief-laden refrain died away, we turned into the house and sought our beds. I slept, but was awoke some two hours afterwards by a stealthy footstep that seemed to be creeping up the rickety creaking staircase. I listened, the noise ceased, but once more I heard the beat

of hoofs, the roll of distant wheels. The sound approached; a horse appeared to dash across the yard; then came a wild, a fearful shriek outside my door, a heavy fall upon the landing. I leapt from bed, struck a light, and sprang into the passage. The moonlight streaming in through the window fell upon the figure of a woman lying prone at my feet. It was Karine. The whole place was now alarmed. My comrades rushed from their rooms, the boatmen and servants hurried upstairs, Eric and his people ran in from the adjoining house. I lifted Karine in my arms, and laid her on my bed. Rigid and cold, she lay motionless; her eyes stood open, her lips were tight set. We bathed her face, we endeavoured to force wine between her clenched teeth; our efforts were fruitless, the woman was dead. I shall not readily forget the impressions of that sad night. The Norwegians remained characteristically stolid; but we Englishmen were shocked and dismayed beyond measure. In a day or two we attended poor Karine's funeral at the neighbouring kirk, and then, abandoning sport for the rest of the season, set off on our journey home.

66

it is

Old Eric sat behind me as I drove down the valley. For a time he was silent, then he asked abruptly-" Will Doc come back to my house next year?" "No, Eric," I replied; very unlikely we shall return. You know we only rented the river from its owner for this season. I fear we are not likely to fish the Ros again." "Then I can tell you," he said. "Herr Sutton, like all Englishmen, laughs at what I have to relate. Nevertheless he desired me never to tell anyone the history when they came, especially if ladies were of the party; but you are not coming back. Listen. You have heard the story of Karine, and how her lover drove away calling out to her loudly, in jest, he would come back, whatever happened.' Well, Doc, it is said Karine, the night she was expecting Hans Hili home from the fair, heard a cariole driving up, and went to meet it. She fell to the ground, and was taken up mad. Every night since then that horse and cariole have been heard; yes, long before I took the farm, and ever since, at midnight. In the light summer nights they echo on the road; in the winter time, when the snow lies deep, and all the folks are using sledges, the same quick trot is heard, as if upon a hard dry track. It is Hans returning, men say, but that no one save Karine ever saw him. She became bereft of reason when he drove up with the great gash in his breast the evening he was murdered, and then it killed her to meet him that fatal night she wandered down here." I am not superstitious, but I must confess the old man's tale, delivered in the strong guttural patois of his district, formed food for much reflection, before the transfer to civilisation drove Norway and Norwegians from my mind.

It chanced that, during the ensuing winter, my friends and I

became the proprietors of the fishery in the Ros, and, to Eric's surprise, we appeared at our former quarters the following

summer.

66

One morning, soon after our arrival, I was strolling about the premises when our landlord suddenly appeared and entered into conversation. "Doc," he said, mysteriously, "do you remember my history of that unfortunate girl Karine?" "Certainly," I replied. "Well," he continued, since she died the sound of the cariole has never been heard. Hans Hili never comes back now. Oh, you need not laugh. All the people used to hear it; now it is a thing of the past." I smiled, and mused upon the credulity of my old friend, but we marked that the trotting pony and the whirling wheels never disturbed us more in the silence of the night.

Summer after summer passed away, and always found us pursuing our sport upon the Ros, then, one year on our arrival, we heard evil tidings. Government had long determined to improve the road through the valley. The project was now in course of execution. A gang of several hundred navvies was at work some miles above our fishing, and would soon enter our district. A rough lot, gathered from all parts of the kingdom, they defied all law and authority; and we were warned to look well to our pools, which were likely to be poached and harried day and night, at every opportunity, by the members of this reckless horde. We consulted the district bailiff on the subject, and he, in turn, introduced us to the foreman of the band of navvies, who promised to do all in his power to restrain the lawlessness of his men. "They seem to think foreigners-you Englishmen, for example-lawful prey. I have had plenty of the same trouble in other valleys where we have been working," he said. "I am sure, however, I could keep my people in tolerable order were it not for one man." "What about him?" we asked. "Well, he calls himself Johan Johnson, and says he is a Swede; but I do not believe that. I think he is a Norwegian. That he is a clever fellow there is no doubt, for he picked up the extraordinary dialect of this district before we had been here a week, notwithstanding that when he heard where we were going he refused to accompany the gang, until I talked him over. He has not long returned from America, and is the most reckless and restless man I have ever had to deal with. However, he is a grand workman, he does more work than ten of the others; indeed, he seems to labour to distract his mind, and for this reason I keep him. Rest assured, gentlemen, I will endeavour to guard your river." We experienced some inconvenience from the poaching propensities of our neighbours; but on the whole the civil foreman kept his promise loyally; nevertheless, one morning we were summoned to a court of inquiry. As we sat at breakfast the bailiff drove into the yard with a prisoner, and wished to know if we would

prosecute or not. "This is the man the Herr Foreman spoke of," he explained, "Johan Johnson. Early this morning he was surprised netting your pool at Moen; there was no doubt about it, I have the nets."

My friends and I considered the matter. The defaulter was a tall, powerful fellow, resembling a Norwegian rather than a Swede. A shock of dark matted hair hung down his back from beneath his slouched felt hat, and he had a stern, defiant face. "Why should I not take fish?" he exclaimed, insolently, in English, with a strong American accent; "it is more my country than yours." But with all his bravado,

he looked no one in the face, strove to avoid the gaze of the crowd, and kept his eyes resolutely bent upon the ground. We thought it best to be lenient with the fellow, for fear of retaliation on the part of his comrades, so we begged the bailiff to warn him against future misdeeds, and he was set at liberty. Without a word of thanks he turned away; and, rapidly striding up the steep hill beside the house, was soon lost to view. "I think you did wisely," said the man in authority, as we watched the retreating figure of the poacher; "this Karl is a great favourite with his fellows; his punishment might have incensed them."

In a day or two we had almost forgotten the incident; then came the climax. We had been fishing till late one evening, and were sitting round our fireside, when Eric tapped at the window, and warned us that the bailiff was coming down the hill with a prisoner again in his custody. We ran out; it was true. The Lensmand leapt from his cariole, and pointed to Johan Johnson, bound fast on the seat behind. The thongs were loosened, and as Johnson was held securely between two men, his crime was detailed. "I had notice of what was about to be done," said the bailiff, "and I arrested this man, and another, who will soon be brought here, just as they had exploded dynamite in the pool Volstad which belongs to your contract. I advise you permit me to prosecute for this." It was a strange scene that, in the lurid gloom of Scandinavian midnight-the Lensmand in his uniform, the motley crew of boatmen, ragged labourers, and wondering_dairymaids, old Eric, his wife and children, and we three Englishmen, all crowding round the prisoner in the square formed by the ancient farmhouse and its surrounding buildings. I looked at the captive. Defiant and insolent as ever, he still endeavoured to avoid close observation. Suddenly we all started, and hushed exclamations of surprise and fear rose up from the whole throng. Louder, much louder than I had ever heard it before, came the sound of a swift pony travelling on the hard road, then followed the whirr of wheels. Johan Johnson's aspect changed. He, too, started, seemed to recognise the noise, became deadly pale, and