If any one had told Roy that his fate was to be seriously affected by Mrs. James Horner, he would scarcely have credited the idea. But the romances of real life are not as a rule spoiled by some black-hearted villain, but are quite unconsciously checked by uninteresting matrons, or prosaic men of the world, who, with entire innocence, frustrate hopes and in happy ignorance go on their way, never realizing that they have had anything to do with the actual lives of those they meet. If the life at Rowan Tree House had gone on without interruption, if Sigrid had been unable to find work and had been at perfect leisure to consider Roy’s wooing, it is quite probable that in a few weeks their friendship might have ended in betrothal. But Mrs. James Horner gave a children’s party, and this fact changed the whole aspect of affairs.

“It is, as you say, rather soon after my poor uncle’s death for us to give a dance,” said Mrs. Horner, as she sat in the drawing-room of Rowan Tree House discussing the various arrangements. “But you see it is dear Mamie’s birthday, and I do not like to disappoint her; and Madame Lechertier has taken the idea up so warmly, and has promised to come as a spectator. It was at her suggestion that we made it a fancy dress affair.”

“Who is Madame Lechertier?” asked Sigrid, who listened with all the interest of a foreigner to these details.

“She is a very celebrated dancing mistress,” explained Cecil. “I should like you to see her, for she is quite a character.”

“Miss Falck will, I hope, come to our little entertainment,” said Mrs. Horner graciously. For, although she detested Frithiof, she had been, against her will, charmed by Sigrid. “It is, you know, quite a small affair—about fifty children, and only from seven to ten. I would not, for the world, shock the congregation, Loveday, so I mean to make it all as simple as possible. I do not know that I shall even have ices.”

“My dear, I do not think ices would shock them,” said Mrs. Boniface, “though I should think perhaps they might not be wholesome for little children who have got heated with dancing.”

“Oh, I don’t really think they’ll be shocked at all,” said Mrs. Horner, smiling. “James could do almost anything before they’d be shocked. You see, he’s such a benefactor to the chapel and is so entirely the leading spirit, why, where would they be without him?”

Mrs. Boniface murmured some kindly reply. It was quite true, as she knew very well. James Horner was so entirely the rich and generous head of the congregation that everything had to give way to him, and the minister was not a little hampered in consequence. It was perhaps the perception of this which made Mr. Boniface, an equally rich and generous man, play a much more quiet part. He worked quite as hard to further the good of the congregation, but his work was much less apparent, nor did he ever show the least symptom of that love of power which was the bane of James Horner’s existence.

Whether Mr. Boniface entirely approved of this children’s fancy-dress dance, Sigrid could not feel sure. She fancied that, in spite of all his kindly, tolerant spirit, he had an innate love of the older forms of Puritanism, and that his quiet, home-keeping nature could not understand at all the enjoyment of dancing or of character-dresses. Except with regard to music, the artistic side of his nature was not highly developed, and while his descent from Puritan forefathers had given him an immense advantage in many ways, and had undoubtedly helped to make him the conscientious, liberty loving, God-fearing man he was, yet it had also given him the Puritan tendency to look with distrust on many innocent enjoyments. He was always fearful of what these various forms of amusement might lead to. But he forgot to think of what dullness and dearth of amusement might lead to, and had not fully appreciated the lesson which Englishmen must surely have been intended to learn from the violent reaction of the Restoration after the restrictions of the Commonwealth.

But no matters of opinion ever made even a momentary discomfort in that happy household. Uniformity there was not, for they thought very differently, and each held fast to his own view; but there was something much higher than uniformity, there was unity, which is the outcome of love. Little differences of practice came from time to time; they went their various ways to church and chapel on Sunday, and Roy and Cecil would go to hear Donati at the opera-house, while the father and mother would have to wait till there was a chance of hearing the celebrated baritone at St. James’s Hall; but in the great aims of life they were absolutely united, and worked and lived in perfect harmony. At length the great day came, and Mr. Boniface and Roy on their return from town were greeted by a bewitching little figure on the stairs, with curly hair combed out to its full length and a dainty suit of crimson velvet trimmed with gold lace.

“Why, who are you?” said Mr. Boniface, entering almost unconsciously into the fun of the masquerade.

“I’m Cinderella’s prince,” shouted Lance gleefully, and in the highest spirits the little fellow danced in to show Frithiof his get-up, capering all over the room in that rapturous enjoyment of childhood, the sight of which is one of the purest pleasures of all true men and women. Frithiof, who had been tired and depressed all day, brightened up at once when Lance, who was very fond of him, came to sit on his knee in that ecstasy of happy impatience which one only sees in children.

“What is the time now?” he asked every two minutes. “Do you think it will soon be time to go? Don’t you almost think you hear the carriage coming?”

“As for me,” said Sigrid, “I feel like Cinderella before the fairy godmother came. You are sure Mrs. Horner will not mind this ordinary black gown?”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Cecil. “You see, she herself is in mourning; and besides, you look charming, Sigrid.”

The compliment was quite truthful, for Sigrid, in her quiet black dress, which suited her slim figure to perfection, the simple folds of white net about her neck, and the delicate blush roses and maidenhair which Roy had gathered for her, certainly looked the most charming little woman imaginable.

“I wish you could come, too,” said Cecil, glancing at Frithiof, while she swathed the little prince in a thick plaid. “It will be very pretty to see all the children in costume.”

“Yes,” he replied; “but my head would never stand the noise and the heat. I am better here.”

“We shall take great care of him,” said Mrs. Boniface; “and you must tell us all about it afterward. Don’t keep Lance up late if he seems to get tired, dearie. Good-by, and mind you enjoy yourself.”

“There goes a happy quartet,” said Mr. Boniface, as he closed the door behind them. “But here, to my way of thinking, is a more enviable trio. Did you ever see this book, Frithiof?”

Since his illness they had fallen into the habit of calling him by his Christian name, for he had become almost like one of the family. Even in his worst days they had all been fond of him, and now in these days of his convalescence, when physical suffering had brought out the gentler side of his nature, and his strength of character was shown rather in silent patience than in dogged and desperate energy, as of old, he had won all hearts. The proud, willful isolation which had made his fellow-workers detest him had been broken down at length, and gratitude for all the kindness he had received at Rowan Tree House had so changed him that it seemed unlikely that he would ever sink again into such an extremity of hard bitterness. His laughter over the book which Mr. Boniface had brought him seemed to his host and hostess a promising sign, and over “Three in Norway” these three in England passed the pleasant evening which Mr. Boniface had predicted.

Meanwhile Sigrid was thoroughly enjoying herself. True, Mr. and Mrs. Horner were vulgar, and now and then said things which jarred on her, but with all their failings they had a considerable share of genuine kindliness, and the very best side of them showed that night, as they tried to make all their guests happy. A children’s party generally does call out whatever good there is in people; unkind gossip is seldom heard at such a time, and people are never bored, for they are infected by the genuine enjoyment of the little ones, the dancers who do not, as in later life, wear masks, whose smiles are the smiles of real and intense happiness, whose laughter is so inspiriting. It was, moreover, the first really gay scene which had met Sigrid’s eyes for nearly a year, and she enjoyed to the full the quaint little cavaliers, the tiny court ladies, with their powdered hair and their patches; the Red Riding-hoods and Bo-Peeps; the fairies and the peasants; the Robin Hoods and Maid Marians. The dancing was going on merrily when Mme. Lechertier was announced, and Sigrid looked up with interest to see what the lady who was pronounced to be “quite a character” was like. She was a tall and wonderfully graceful woman, with an expressive but plain face. In repose her expression was decidedly autocratic, but she had a most charming smile, and a perfect manner. The Norwegian girl took a great fancy to her, and the feeling was mutual, for the great Mme. Lechertier, who, it was rumored, was of a keenly critical disposition, instantly noticed her, and turned to the hostess with an eager question.

“What a charming face that golden-haired girl has!” she said in her outspoken and yet courteous way. “With all her simplicity there is such a pretty little touch of dignity. See how perfect her bow is! What is her name? And may I not be introduced to her?”

“She is a friend of my cousin’s,” explained Mrs. Horner, glad to claim this sort of proprietorship in any one who had called forth compliments from the lips of so critical a judge.

“She is Norwegian, and her name is Falck.”

Sigrid liked the bright, clever, majestic-looking Frenchwoman better than ever after she had talked with her. There was, indeed, in Mme. Lechertier something very refreshing. Her chief charm was that she was so utterly unlike any one else. There was about her an individuality that was really astonishing, and when you heard her talk you felt the same keen sense of novelty and interest that is awakened by the first sight of a foreign country. She in her turn was enchanted by Sigrid’s perfect naturalness and vivacity, and they had become fast friends, when presently a pause in the music made them both look up.

The pianist, a pale, worn-looking lady, whose black silk dress had an ominously shiny back, which told its tale of poverty, all at once broke down, and her white face touched Sigrid’s heart.

“I think she is faint,” she exclaimed. “Do you think I might offer to play for her?”

“It is a kind thought,” said Mme. Lechertier, and she watched with interest while the pretty Norwegian girl hastened to the piano, and with a few hurried words relieved the pianist, who beat a hasty retreat into the cooler air of the hall.

She played extremely well, and being herself a born dancer, entered into the spirit of the waltz in a way which her predecessor had wholly failed to do. Mme. Lechertier was delighted, and when by and by Sigrid was released she rejoined her, and refused to be borne off to the supper-room by Mr. Horner.

“No, no,” she said; “let the little people be attended to first. Miss Falck and I mean to have a quiet talk here.”

So Sigrid told her something of her life at Bergen, and of the national love of music and dancing, and thoroughly interested her.

“And when do you return?” asked Mme. Lechertier.

“That depends on whether I can find work in England,” replied Sigrid. “What I wish is to stay in London with my brother. He has been very ill, and I do not think he ought to live alone.”

“What sort of work do you wish for?” asked Madame Lechertier.

“I would do anything,” said Sigrid. “But the worst of it is everything is so crowded already, and I have no very special talent.”

“My dear,” said Madame Lechertier, “it seems to me you have a very decided talent. You play dance music better than any one I ever heard, and that is saying a good deal. Why do you not turn this to account?”

“Do you think I could?” asked Sigrid, her eyes lighting up eagerly. “Do you really think I could earn my living by it?”

“I feel sure of it,” said Madame Lechertier. “And if you seriously think the idea is good I will come and discuss the matter with you. I hear you are a friend of my old pupil, Miss Boniface.”

“Yes, we are staying now at Rowan Tree House; they have been so good to us.”

“They are delightful people—the father is one of nature’s true gentlemen. I shall come and see you, then, and talk this over. To-morrow morning, if that will suit you.”

Sigrid went home in high spirits, and the next day, when as usual she and Frithiof were alone in the morning-room after breakfast, she told him of Madame Lechertier’s proposal, and while they were still discussing the matter the good lady was announced.

Now, like many people, Madame Lechertier was benevolent by impulse. Had Sigrid been less attractive, she would not have gone out of her way to help her; but the Norwegian girl had somehow touched her heart.

“It will be a case of ‘Colors seen by candlelight will not look the same by day,’” she had reflected as she walked to Rowan Tree House. “I shall find my pretty Norse girl quite commonplace and uninteresting, and my castle in the air will fall in ruins.”

But when she was shown into the room where Sigrid sat at work, all her fears vanished. “The girl has bewitched me!” she thought to herself. “And the brother, what a fine-looking fellow! There is a history behind that face if I’m not mistaken.”

“We have just been talking over what you said to me last night, Madame,” said Sigrid brightly.

“The question is,” said Madame Lechertier, “whether you are really in earnest in seeking work, and whether you will not object to my proposal. The fact is that the girl who for some time has played for me at my principal classes is going to be married. I have, of course, another assistant upon whom I can, if need be, fall back; but she does not satisfy me, we do not work well together, and her playing is not to be compared to yours. I should only need you in the afternoon, and during the three terms of the year. Each term is of twelve weeks, and the salary I should offer you would be £24 a term—£2 a week, you see.”

“Oh, Frithiof!” cried Sigrid, in great excitement, “we should be able to help Swanhild. We could have her over from Norway. Surely your salary and mine together would keep us all?”

“Who is Swanhild?” asked Madame Lechertier.

“She is our little sister, Madame. She is much younger—only eleven years old, and as we are orphans, Frithiof and I are her guardians.”

Madame Lechertier looked at the two young faces, smiling to think that they should be already burdened with the cares of guardianship. It touched her, and yet at the same time it was almost comical to hear these two young things gravely talking about their ward.

“You see,” said Frithiof, “there would be her education; one must not forget that.”

“But at the high schools it is very cheap, is it not, Madame?” said Sigrid.

“About ten pounds a year,” said Madame Lechertier. “What is your little sister like, because if she is at all like you—”

“Here is her photograph,” said Sigrid, unfastening her writing-case and taking out Swanhild’s picture. “This is taken in her peasant costume which she used to wear sometimes for fun when when we were in the country. It suits her very well, I think.”

“But she is charming,” cried Madame Lechertier. “Such a dainty little figure—such well-shaped legs! My dear, I have a bright thought—an inspiration. Send for your little Swanhild, and when you come to me each afternoon bring her also in this fascinating costume. She shall be my little pupil-teacher, and though, of course, her earnings would be but small, yet they would more than cover her education at a high school, and she would be learning a useful profession into the bargain.”

She glanced at Frithiof and saw quite plainly that he shrank from the idea, and that it would go hard with his proud nature to accept such an offer. She glanced at Sigrid, and saw that the sister was ready to sacrifice anything for the sake of getting the little girl to England. Then, having as much tact as kindness, she rose to go.

“You will talk it over between you and let me know your decision,” she said pleasantly. “Consult Mr. and Mrs. Boniface, and let me know in a day or two. Why should you not come in to afternoon tea with me to-morrow, for I shall be at home for once, and can show you my canaries? Cecil will bring you. She and I are old friends.”

When she was gone Sigrid returned to the room with dancing eyes.

“Is she not delightful!” she cried. “For myself, Frithiof, I can’t hesitate for a moment. The work will be easy, and she will be thoroughly kind.”

“She has a bad temper,” said Frithiof.

“How do you know?”

“Because no sweet-tempered woman ever had such a straight, thin-lipped mouth.”

“I think you are very horrid to pick holes in her when she has been so kind to us. For myself I must accept. But how about Swanhild?”

“I hate the thought for either of you,” said Frithiof moodily.

Somehow, though his own descent in the social scale had been disagreeable enough, yet it had not been so intolerable to him as this thought of work for his sisters.

“Now, Frithiof, don’t go and be a goose about it,” said Sigrid caressingly. “If we are ever to have a nice, cosy little home together we must certainly work at something, and we are not likely to get lighter, or more congenial, or better-paid work than this. Come, dear, you have got, as Lance would say, to ‘grin and bear it.’”

He sighed.

“In any case, we must give Swanhild herself a voice in the matter,” he said at length. “Accept the offer if you like, provisionally, and let us write to her and tell her about it.”

“Very well, we will write a joint letter and give her all sorts of guardianly advice. But, all the same, you know as well as I do that Swanhild will not hesitate for a moment. She is dying to come to England, and she is never so happy as when she is dancing.”

Frithiof thought of that day long ago, when he had come home after meeting the Morgans at the Bergen landing quay, and had heard Sigrid playing as he walked up the garden path, and had found Swanhild dancing so merrily with Lillo, and the old refrain that had haunted him then returned to him now in bitter mockery:

When Roy came home that evening the matter was practically decided. Frithiof and Sigrid had had a long talk in the library with Mr. and Mrs. Boniface, and by and by in the garden Sigrid told him gleefully what she called the “good news.”

“I can afford to laugh now at my aluminium pencils and the embroidery patterns, and the poodle shaving,” she said gayly. “Was it not lucky that we happened to go to Mrs. Horner’s party, and that everything happened just as it did?”

“Do you really like the prospect?” asked Roy.

“Indeed I do. I haven’t felt so happy for months. For now we need never again be parted from Frithiof. It will be the best thing in the world for him to have a comfortable little home; and I shall take good care that he doesn’t work too hard. Mr. Boniface has been so good. He says that Frithiof can have some extra work to do if he likes; he can attend some of your concerts, and arrange the platform between the pieces; and this will add nicely to his salary. And then, too, when he heard that I had quite decided on accepting Mme. Lechertier’s offer, he proposed something else for us too.”

“What was that?” said poor Roy, his heart sinking down like lead.

“Why, he thinks that he might get us engagements to play at children’s parties or small dances. Frithiof’s violin playing is quite good enough, he says. And don’t you think it would be much better for him than poring so long over that hateful work of Herr Sivertsen’s?”

Roy was obliged to assent. He saw only too clearly that to speak to her now of his love would be utterly useless—indeed, worse than useless. She would certainly refuse him, and there would be an end of the pleasant intercourse. Moreover, it would be far more difficult to help them, as they were now able to do in various small ways.

“Frithiof is rather down in the depths about it,” said Sigrid. “And I do hope you will cheer him up. After all, it is very silly to think that there is degradation in any kind of honest work. If you had known what it was to live in dependence on relations for so long you would understand how happy I am to-night. I, too, shall be able to help in paying off the debts!”

“Is her life also to be given up to that desperate attempt?” thought Roy despondently.

And if Sigrid had not been absorbed in her own happy thoughts, his depression, and perhaps the cause of it, would have been apparent to her. But she strolled along the garden path beside him, in blissful ignorance, thinking of a busy, successful future, in which Roy Boniface played no part at all.

She was his friend, she liked him heartily. But that was all. Whether their friendship could ever now deepen into love seemed doubtful.