It seemed to Sigrid that she had hardly gone to bed before it was time to get up again; she sleepily wished that Londoners would give dances at more reasonable hours, then, remembering all that had happened, she forgot her own weariness and turned with an eager question to Swanhild. It was the little sister’s daily duty to go in and wake Frithiof up, a task of some difficulty, for either his bad habit of working at night during his lonely year in town, or else his illness, had left him with a tendency to be wide awake between twelve and two and sound asleep between six and seven.

“You haven’t called him yet, have you?” asked Sigrid, rubbing her eyes.

“No, but it is quite time,” said Swanhild, shutting up her atlas and rearing up in the bed where she had been luxuriously learning geography.

“Oh, leave him a little longer,” said Sigrid. “We were so late last night, and his head was so bad, that I don’t suppose he has had much sleep. And, Swanhild, whatever you do, don’t speak of the dance to him or ask him any questions. As ill luck would have it Lady Romiaux was there.”

Now Swanhild was a very imaginative child, and she was just at the age when girls form extravagant adorations for women. At Balholm she had worshiped Blanche; even when told afterward how badly Frithiof had been treated her love had not faltered, she had invented every possible excuse for her idol, and though never able to speak of her, still cherished a little hoard of souvenirs of Balholm. There is something laughable and yet touching in these girlish adorations, and as safeguards against premature thoughts of real love they are certainly worthy of all encouragement. Men were at present nothing at all to her but a set of big brothers, who did well enough as playfellows. All the romance of her nature was spent on an ideal Blanche—how unlike the real Lady Romiaux innocent Swanhild never guessed. While the world talked hard things, this little Norwegian girl was secretly kissing a fir-cone, which Blanche had once picked up on their way to the priest’s saeter, or furtively unwrapping a withered rose which had been fastened in Blanche’s hair at the merry dance on that Saturday night. Her heart beat so fast that she felt almost choked when Sigrid suddenly mentioned Lady Romiaux’s name.

“How was she looking?” she asked, turning away her blushing face with the most comical parody of a woman’s innate tendency to hide her love.

“Oh, she was looking just as usual, as pretty, and as siren-like as ever, wretched woman!” Then, remembering that Swanhild was too young to hear all the truth, she suddenly drew up. “But there, don’t speak of her any more. I never wish to hear her name again.”

Poor Swanhild sighed; she thought Sigrid very hard and unforgiving, and this made her cling all the more to her beloved ideal; it was true she had been faithless to Frithiof, but no doubt she was very sorry by this time, and as the child knelt down to say her morning prayers she paused long over the petition for “Blanche,” which for all this time had never been omitted once.

Frithiof came to breakfast only a few minutes before the time when he had to start for business. His eyes looked very heavy, and his face had the pale, set look which Sigrid had learnt to interpret only too well. She knew that while they had been sleeping he had been awake, struggling with those old memories which at times would return to him; he had conquered, but the conquest had left him weary, and exhausted and depressed.

“If only she had been true to him!” thought Swanhild. “Poor Blanche! if he looked at all like this last night how terribly sorry she must have felt.”

After all, the child with her warm-hearted forgiveness, and her scanty knowledge of facts, was perhaps a good deal nearer the truth than Sigrid. Certainly Blanche was not the ideal of her dreams, but she was very far from being the hopelessly depraved character that Sigrid deemed her; she was a woman who had sinned very deeply, but she was not utterly devoid of heart, and there were gleams of good in her to which the Norwegian girl, in her hot indignation, was altogether blind. Sigrid was not faultless, and as with Frithiof, so there lingered too with her a touch of the fierce, unforgiving spirit which had governed their Viking ancestors.

More than once that morning as she moved about her household tasks she said under her breath—“I wish that woman were dead!—I wish she were dead!”

“You don’t look well this morning, Mr. Falck,” said the foreman, a cheerful, bright-eyed, good-hearted old man, who had managed to bring up a large family on his salary, and to whom Frithiof had often applied for advice on the subject of domestic economy. The two liked each other now cordially, and worked well together, Foster having altogether lost the slight prejudice he had at first felt against the foreigner.

“We were up late last night,” said Frithiof, by way of explanation. But the old man was shrewd and quick-sighted, and happening later on to be in Mr. Boniface’s private room, he seized the opportunity to remark:

“We shall have Mr. Falck knocking up again, sir, if I’m not mistaken: he is looking very ill to-day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Boniface. “You were quite right to tell me, Foster. We will see what can be done.”

And the foreman knew that there was no favoritism in this speech, for Mr. Boniface considered the health of his employees as a matter of the very highest importance, and being a Christian first and a tradesman afterward, did not consider money-making to be the great object of life. Many a time good old Foster himself had been sent down for a few days at the seaside with his family, and it was perhaps a vivid remembrance of the delights of West Codrington that made him add as he left the room:

“He looks to me, sir, as if he needed bracing up.”

Mr. Boniface was much of the same opinion when he noticed Frithiof later on in the day. A thoroughly good salesman the Norwegian had always been—clear-headed, courteous, and accurate; but now the look of effort which he had borne for some time before his illness was clearly visible, and Mr. Boniface seized the first chance he could get of speaking to him alone. About five o’clock there came a lull in the tide of customers; Darnell, the man at the opposite counter, had gone to tea, and Frithiof had gone back to his desk to enter some songs in the order-list.

“Frithiof,” said Mr. Boniface, coming over to him and dropping the somewhat more formal style of address which he generally used toward him during business hours, “you have got one of your bad headaches.”

“Yes,” replied the Norwegian candidly, “but it is not a disabling one. I shall get through all right.”

“What plans have you made for your Whitsuntide holiday?”

“I don’t think we had made any plan at all.”

“Then I want you all to come away with us for a few days,” said the shop-owner. “You look to me as if you wanted rest. Come to us for a week; I will arrange for your absence.”

“You are very good,” said Frithiof warmly. “But indeed I would rather only take the general holiday of Saturday to Tuesday. I am not in the least ill, and would rather not take extra days when there is no need.”

“Independent as ever,” said Mr. Boniface, with a smile. “Well, it must be as you like. We will see what the three days will do for you.”

Where and how this holiday was to be spent only Mr. and Mrs. Boniface knew, and Cecil and Roy were as much astonished as any one when, at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, a coach and four stopped at the gate of Rowan Tree House.

“What! are we to drive there?” asked Cecil. “Oh, father, how delightful! Will it be very far?”

“Yes, a long drive; so keep out plenty of wraps, in case the evening is chilly. We can tuck away the children inside if they get tired. Now, are we all ready? Then we will drive to the model lodgings.”

So off they started, a very merry party, but still merrier when the three Norwegians had joined them, the girls, as usual, dressed in black, for economy’s sake, but wearing very dainty little white sailor hats, which Sigrid had sat up on the previous night to trim. She enjoyed her new hat amazingly; she enjoyed locking up the lodgings and handing the key to the caretaker; she enjoyed the delicious prospect of three days’ immunity from cooking, and cleaning, and anxious planning of food and money; and she enjoyed Roy’s presence, with the frank, free happiness of a girl who is as yet quite heart-whole.

“I feel like the ‘linen-draper bold,’ in the ballad,” said Mr. Boniface, with his hearty laugh. “But I have taken precautions, you see, against a similar catastrophe. We have had more than the ‘twice ten tedious years’ together, have we not, Loveday?”

“Yes,” she said, with her sweet, expressive smile, “we are just beginning the twenty-seventh, Robin, and have had many holidays, unlike Mr. and Mrs. Gilpin.”

They were still like lovers, this husband and wife of twenty-six years’ standing; and it was with a sort of consciousness that they would be happier if left to themselves, that Frithiof, who sat between Mrs. Boniface and Cecil, turned toward the latter, and began to talk to her.

Cecil was looking her very best that day. The sun lighted up her fair hair, the fresh wind brought a glow of healthy color to her cheeks, her honest gray eyes had lost the grave look which they usually wore, and were bright and happy-looking; for she was not at all the sort of girl, who, because she could not get her own wish, refused to enjoy life. She took all that came to her brightly enough, and, with a presentiment that such a treat as this drive with Frithiof would not often fall to her lot, she gave herself up to present happiness, and put far from her all anxieties and fears for the future. From the back seat, peals of laughter from Lance, and Gwen, and Swanhild reached them. In front, by the side of the driver, they could see Roy and Sigrid absorbed in their own talk; and with such surroundings it would have been hard indeed if these two, the Norwegian, with his sad story, and Cecil, with her life overshadowed by his trouble, had not been able for a time to throw off everything that weighed them down, and enjoy themselves like the rest.

“This is a thousand times better than a cariole or a stolkjaerre,” said Frithiof. “What a splendid pace we are going at, and how well you see the country! It is the perfection of traveling.”

“So I think,” said Cecil. “At any rate, on such a day as this. In rain, or snow, or burning heat, it might be rather trying. And then, of course, in the old days we should not have had it all snugly to ourselves like this; which makes such a difference.”

He thought over those last words for a minute, and reflected how among “ourselves” Cecil included the little children of a criminal, and the foreigners who had scarcely been known to them for two years. Her warm, generous heart had for him a very genuine attraction. Possibly, if it had not been for that chance meeting with Blanche, which had caused an old wound to break out anew, some thought of love might have stirred in his breast. As it was, he was merely grateful to her for chasing away the gloom that for the last few days had hung about him like a fog. She was to him a cheering ray of sunshine; a healthy breeze that dispersed the mist; a friend—but nothing more.

On they drove, free of houses at last, or passing only isolated farms, little villages, and sleepy country towns. The trees were in all the exquisite beauty of early June, and the Norwegians, accustomed to less varied foliage, were enthusiastic in their admiration. They had never known before what it was to drive along a road bordered by picturesque hedges, with stately elms here and there, and with oaks and beeches, sycamores and birches, poplars and chestnuts scattered in such lavish profusion throughout the landscape.

“If we can beat you in mountains, you can certainly beat us in trees!” cried Sigrid, her blue eyes bright with happiness.

She was enjoying it all as only those who have been toiling in a great town can enjoy the sights and sounds of the country. The most humdrum things had an attraction for her, and when they stopped by and by for tea, at a little roadside inn, she almost wished their drive at an end, such a longing came over her to run out into the fields and just gather flowers to her heart’s content.

At last, after a great deal of tea and bread and butter had been consumed, they mounted the coach again, leaving a sort of reflection of their happiness in the hearts of the people of the inn.

“There’s merry-makers and merry-makers,” remarked the landlord, glancing after them; “yon’s the right sort, and no mistake.”

And now Mr. Boniface began to enjoy to the full his surprise. How he laughed when they implored him to say where they were going! How triumphant he was when the driver, who was as deaf as a post, utterly declined to answer leading questions put to him by Roy!

“I believe we are going to Helmstone, or some great watering-place, where we shall have to be proper and wear gloves,” said Cecil.

This was received with groans.

“But to get a sight of the sea one would put up with glove-wearing,” said Sigrid. “And we could, at any rate, walk out into the country, I suppose, for flowers.”

Mr. Boniface only smiled, however, and looked inscrutable. And finding that they could not guess their destination in the least, they took to singing rounds, which made the time pass by very quickly. At length Frithiof started to his feet with an eager exclamation.

“The sea!” he cried.

And sure enough, there, in the distance, was the first glimpse of a long blue line, which made the hearts of the Norwegians throb with eager delight.

“It seems like being at home again,” said Swanhild, while Frithiof seemed to drink in new life as the fresh salt wind blew once more upon him, bringing back to his mind the memory of many a perilous adventure in his free, careless boyhood.

“A big watering-place,” groaned Roy. “I told you so. Houses, churches, a parade, and a pier; I can see them all.”

“Where? where?” cried every one, while Mr. Boniface laughed quietly and rubbed his hands.

“Over there, to the left,” said Roy.

“You prophet of evil!” cried Cecil merrily; “we are turning quite away to the right.”

And on they went between the green downs, till they came to a tiny village, far removed from railways, and leaving even that behind them, paused at length before a solitary farm-house, standing a little back from the road, with downs on either side of it, and barely a quarter of a mile from the sea.

“How did you hear of this delightful place, father?” cried Cecil; “it is just perfect.”

“Well, I saw it when you and Roy were in Norway two summers ago,” said Mr. Boniface. “Mother and I drove out here from Southborne, and took such a fancy to this farm that, like Captain Cuttle, we made a note of it, and kept it for a surprise party.”

Mr. Horner, in his suburban villa, was at that very moment lamenting his cousin’s absurd extravagance.

“He was always wanting in common-sense, poor fellow,” observed Mrs. Horner. “But to hire a coach-and-four just to take into the country his own family and that criminal’s children, and those precious Norwegians, who apparently think themselves on a level with the highest in the land—that beats everything! I suppose he’ll be wanting to hire a palace for them next bank holiday!”

As a matter of fact, the farm-house accommodation was rather limited, but no one cared about that. Though the rooms were small, they had a most delicious smell of the country about them, and every one, moreover, was in a humor to be as much out of doors as possible.

The time seemed to all of them a little like that summer holiday at Balholm in its freedom and brightness and good-fellowship. The delightful rambles over the breezy downs, the visit to the lighthouse, the friendly chats with the coast-guardsmen, the boating excursions, and the quiet country Sunday—all remained in their memories for long after.

To Roy those days were idyllic; and Sigrid, too, began to understand for the first time that he was something more to her than Frithiof’s friend. The two were much together, and on the Monday afternoon, when the rest of the party had gone off again to the lighthouse for Lance’s special benefit, they wandered away along the shore, nominally searching among the rocks for anemones, but far too much absorbed in each other to prove good collectors.

It took a long time really to know Roy, for he was silent and reserved; but by this time Sigrid had begun to realize how much there was in him that was well worth knowing, and her bright, easy manner had always been able to thaw his taciturn moods. He had, she perceived, his father’s large-mindedness; he studied the various problems of the day in the same spirit; to money he was comparatively indifferent; and he was wholly without that spirit of calculation, that sordid ambition which is very unjustly supposed to animate most of those engaged in retail trade. Sigrid had liked him ever since their first meeting in Norway, but only within the last two days had any thought of love occurred to her. Even now that thought was scarcely formed; she was only conscious of being unusually happy, and of feeling a sort of additional happiness, and a funny sense of relief when the rest of the party climbed the hill to the lighthouse, leaving her alone with Roy. Of what they talked she scarcely knew, but as they wandered on over low rocks and pools and shingle, hand in hand, because the way was slippery and treacherous, it seemed to her that she was walking in some new paradise. The fresh air and beauty after the smoke and the wilderness of streets; the sense of protection, after the anxieties of being manager-in-chief to a very poor household; above all, the joyous brightness after a sad past, made her heart dance within her; and in her happiness she looked so lovely that all thought of obstacles and difficulties left Roy’s mind.

They sat down to rest in a little sheltered nook under the high chalk cliffs, and it was there that he poured out to her the confession of his love, being so completely carried away that for once words came readily to his lips, so that Sigrid was almost frightened by his eagerness. How different was this from Torvald Lundgren’s proposal! How utterly changed was her whole life since that wintry day when she had walked back from the Bergen cemetery!

What was it that had made everything so bright to her since then? Was it not the goodness of the man beside her—the man who had saved her brother’s life—who had brought them together once more—who now loved her and asked for her love?

When at last he paused, waiting for her reply, she was for a minute or two quite silent; still her face reassured Roy, and he was not without hope, so that the waiting-time was not intolerable to him.

“If it were only myself to be thought about,” she said at length, “I might perhaps give you an answer more readily. But, you see, there are other people to be considered.”

The admission she had made sent a throb of delight to Roy’s heart. Once sure of her love he dreaded no obstacles.

“You are thinking of Frithiof,” he said. “And of course I would never ask you to leave him; but there would be no need. If you could love me—if you will be my wife—you would be much freer than you now are to help him.”

The thought of his wealth suddenly flashed into Sigrid’s mind, giving her a momentary pang; yet, since she really loved him, it was impossible that this should be a lasting barrier between them. She looked out over the sea, and the thought of her old home, and of the debts, and the slow struggle to pay them, came to her; yet all the time she knew that these could not separate her from Roy. She loved him, and the world’s praise or blame were just nothing to her. She could not care in the least about the way in which such a marriage would be regarded by outsiders. She loved him; and when once sure that her marriage would be right—that it would not be selfish, or in any way bad in its effects on either Frithiof or Swanhild—it was impossible that she should hesitate any longer.

But of this she was not yet quite sure. All had come upon her so suddenly that she felt as if she must have time to think it out quietly before making a definite promise.

“Give me a fortnight,” she said, “and then I will let you have my answer. It would not be fair to either of us if I spoke hastily when so much is at stake.”

Roy could not complain of this suggestion: it was much that he was able at last to plead his own cause with Sigrid, and in her frank blue eyes there lurked something which told him that he need fear no more.

Meanwhile time sped on, and, unheeded by these two, the tide was coming in. They were so absorbed in their own affairs that it was not until a wave swept right into the little bay, leaving a foam-wreath almost at their feet, that they realized their danger. With a quick exclamation Roy started up.

“What have I been thinking of?” he cried in dismay. “Why, we are cut off!”

Sigrid sprang forward and glanced toward Britling Gap. It was too true. Return was absolutely impossible.

“We could never swim such a distance,” she said. And turning, she glanced toward the steep white cliff above.

“And that too is utterly impossible,” said Roy. “Our only hope is in some pleasure-boat passing. Stay, I have an idea.”

Hastily opening his knife he began to scoop out footholds in the chalk. He saw that their sole chance lay in making a standing-place out of reach of the water, and he worked with all his might, first securing a place for the feet, then, higher up, scooping holes for the hands to cling to; he spoke little, his mind was too full of a torturing sense of blame, a bitter indignation with himself for allowing his very love to blind him to such a danger.

As for Sigrid, she picked up a pointed stone and began to work too with desperate energy. She was naturally brave, and as long as she could do anything her heart scarcely beat faster than usual. It was the waiting-time that tried her, the clinging to that uncompromising white cliff, while below the waves surged to and fro with the noise that only that morning she had thought musical, but which now seemed to her almost intolerable. If it had not been that Roy’s arm was round her, holding her closely, she could never have borne up so long; she would have turned giddy and fallen back into the water. But his strength seemed to her equal to anything, and her perfect confidence in him filled her with a wonderful energy of endurance.

In their terrible position all sense of time left them; they could not tell whether it was for minutes or for hours that they had clung to their frail refuge, when at length a shout from above reached their ears.

“Courage!” cried a voice. “A boat is coming to your help. Hold on!”

Hope renewed their strength in a wonderful way; they were indeed less to be pitied than those who had the fearful anxiety of rescuing them, or watching the rescue.

It was Frithiof who had first discovered them; the rest of the party, after seeing over the lighthouse, had wandered along the cliffs talking to an old sailor, and, Lance being seized with a desire to see over the edge, Frithiof had set Cecil’s mind at rest by lying down with the little fellow and holding him securely while he glanced down the sheer descent to the sea. A little farther on, to the left, he suddenly perceived, to his horror, the two clinging figures, and at once recognized them. Dragging the child back, he sprang up and seized the old sailor’s arm, interrupting a long-winded story to which Mr. Boniface was listening.

“There are two people down there, cut off by the tide,” he said. “What is the quickest way to reach them?”

“Good Lord!” cried the old man; “why, there’ll be nought quicker than a boat at Britling Gap, or ropes brought from there and let down.”

“Tell them help is coming,” said Frithiof “I will row round.”

And without another word he set off running like the wind toward the coast-guard station. On and on he rushed over the green downs, past the little white chalk-heaps that marked the coast-guard’s nightly walk, past the lighthouse and down the hill to the little sheltered cove. Though a good runner, he was sadly out of training; his breath came now in gasps, his throat felt as though it were on fire, and all the time a terrible dread filled his heart. Supposing he were too late!

At Britling Gap not a soul was in sight, and he dared not waste time in seeking help. The boat was in its usual place on the beach. He shoved it out to sea, sprang into it, paused only to fling off his coat, then with desperate energy pulled toward the place where Roy and Sigrid awaited their rescuer with fast-failing strength.

And yet in all Frithiof’s anxiety there came to him a strange sense of satisfaction, an excitement which banished from his mind all the specters of the past, a consciousness of power that in itself was invigorating. Danger seemed to be his native element, daring his strongest characteristic, and while straining every nerve and making the little boat bound through the water, he was more at rest than he had been for months, just because everything personal had faded into entire insignificance before the absorbing need of those whom he loved.

How his pulses throbbed when at length he caught sight of Sigrid’s figure! and with what skill he guided his boat toward the cliff, shouting out encouragement and warning! The two were both so stiff and exhausted that it was no easy task to get them down into the boat, but he managed it somehow, and a glad cheer from above showed that the watchers were following their every movement with eager sympathy.

“Let us walk back quickly,” said Mr. Boniface, “that we may be ready to meet them,” and with an intensity of relief they hurried back to Britling Gap, arriving just in time to greet the three as they walked up the beach. Sigrid, though rather pale and exhausted, seemed little the worse for the adventure, and a glad color flooded her cheeks when Mr. Boniface turned to Frithiof and grasping his hand, thanked him warmly for what he had done. Cecil said scarcely anything; she could hardly trust herself to speak, but her heart beat fast as, glancing at Frithiof, she saw on his face the bright look which made him once more like the Frithiof she had met long ago at Bergen.