A Hardy Norseman by Edna Lyall

Although it was the middle of August, a bitterly cold wind blew round the dreary little posting station of Hjerkin, on the Dovrefield, and at the very time when Frithiof lay dying in the intolerable heat of London, Sigrid, shivering with cold, paced drearily along the bleak mountain road with her aunt. They had come to the Dovrefield a fortnight before for the summer holiday, but the weather had been unfavorable, and away from home, with nothing very particular to occupy their time, Fru Grönvold and Sigrid seemed to jar upon each other more than ever. Apparently the subject they were discussing was not at all to the girl's taste, for as they walked along there were two ominous little depressions in her forehead, nor did her black fur hat entirely account for the shadow that overspread her face.

"Yes," said Fru Grönvold emphatically, "I am sorry to have to say such a thing of you, Sigrid, but it really seems to me that you are playing the part of the dog in the manger. You profess absolute indifference to every man you meet, yet you go on absorbing attention, and standing in Karen's light, in a way which I assure you is very trying to me."