The scene shifts to a land afar off toward the north, Norway--away up
into one of its mountain meadows. The landscape is a mixture of grandeur
and beauty. Hills upon hills, covered with pine and fir, stretch away
from the lowlands to the distant glacier-clad mountains, and patches of
green meadow gleam through the dark pine depths.

The clear blue sky changes to a faint haze in the hilly distance. The
gentle air is perfumed with the odor of the forest. A Sabbath stillness
broods over all. The sun has swung around to the northwest, and skims
along the horizon as if loth to leave such a sweet scene.

Evening was settling down on the Norwegian _saeter_, or summer herd
ground. Riding along the trail through the pines appeared a young man.
He was evidently not at home in the forest, as he peered anxiously
through every opening. His dress and bearing indicated that he was not a
woodsman nor a herder of cattle. Pausing on a knoll, he surveyed the
scene around him, and took off his hat that the evening breeze might
cool his face. Suddenly, there came echoing through the forest, from
hill to hill, the deep notes of the _lur_. The traveler listened, and
then urged his horse forward. Again and again the blast reverberated,
the notes dying in low echoes on the distant hills. From another rise,
the rider saw the girl who was making all this wild music. She was
standing on a high knoll. Peering down into the forest, she recognized
the traveler and welcomed him with an attempt at a tune on her long,
wooden trumpet.

"Good evening, Hansine," said he, as his horse scrambled up the path
close by, "your _lur_ made welcome music this evening."