One December day another conclave was held in Mr. Boniface’s private room. Mr. Boniface himself sat with his arm chair turned round toward the fire, and on his pleasant, genial face there was a slight cloud, for he much disliked the prospect of the discussion before him. Mr. Horner stood with his back to the mantel-piece, looking even more pompous and conceited than usual, and Roy sat at the writing-table, listening attentively to what passed, and relieving his feelings by savagely digging his pen into the blotting-pad to the great detriment of its point.

“It is high time we came to an understanding on this matter,” Mr. Horner was saying. “Do you fully understand that when I have once said a thing I keep to it? Either that Norwegian must go, or when the day comes for renewing our partnership I leave this place never to re-enter it.”

“I do not wish to have any quarrel with you about the matter,” said Mr. Boniface. “But I shall certainly not part with Falck. To send him away now would be most cruel and unjustifiable.”

“It would be nothing of the sort,” retorted Mr. Horner hotly. “It would be merely following the dictates of common-sense and fairness.”

“This is precisely the point on which you and I do not agree,” said Mr. Boniface with dignity.

“It is not only his dishonesty that has set me against him,” continued Mr. Horner. “It is his impertinent indifference, his insufferable manner when I order him to do anything.”

“I have never myself found him anything but a perfect gentleman,” said Mr. Boniface.

“Gentleman! Oh! I’ve no patience with all that tomfoolery! I want none of your gentlemen; I want a shopman who knows his place and can answer with proper deference.”

“You do not understand the Norse nature,” said Roy. “Now here in the newspaper, this very day, is a good sample of it.” He unfolded the morning paper eagerly and read them the following lines, taking a wicked delight in the thought of how it would strike home:

“Their noble simplicity and freedom of manners bear witness that they have never submitted to the yoke of a conqueror, or to the rod of a petty feudal lord; a peasantry at once so kind-hearted, so truly humble and religious, and yet so nobly proud, where pride is a virtue, who resent any wanton affront to their honor or dignity. As an instance of this, it may be mentioned that a naturalist, on finding that his hired peasant companions had not done their work of dredging to his satisfaction, scolded them in violent and abusive language. The men did not seem to take the slightest notice of his scolding. ‘How can you stand there so stupidly and apathetically, as though the matter did not concern you?’ said he, still more irritated. ‘It is because we think, sir, that such language is only a sign of bad breeding,’ replied an unawed son of the mountains, whom even poverty could not strip of the consciousness of his dignity.”

“You insult me by reading such trash,” said Mr Horner, all the more irritated because he knew that Roy had truth on his side, and that he had often spoken to Frithiof abusively. “But if you like to keep this thief in your employ—”

“Excuse me, but I can not let that expression pass,” said Mr. Boniface. “No one having the slightest knowledge of Frithiof Falck could believe him guilty of dishonesty.”

“Well, then, this lunatic with a mania for taking money that belongs to other people—this son of a bankrupt, this designing foreigner—if you insist on keeping him I withdraw my capital and retire. I am aware that it is a particularly inconvenient time to withdraw money from the business, but that is your affair. ‘As you have brewed so you must drink.’”

“It may put me to some slight inconvenience,” said Mr. Boniface. “But as far as I am concerned I shall gladly submit to that rather than go against my conscience with regard to Falck. What do you say, Roy?”

“I am quite at one with you, father,” replied Roy, with a keen sense of enjoyment in the thought of so quietly baffling James Horner’s malicious schemes.

“This designing fellow has made you both his dupes,” said Mr. Horner furiously. “Someday you’ll repent of this and see that I was right.”

No one replied, and, with an exclamation of impatient disgust, James Horner took up his hat and left the room, effectually checkmated. Frithiof, happening to glance up from his desk as the angry man strode through the shop, received so furious a glance that he at once realized what must have passed in the private room. It was not, however, until closing time that he could speak alone with Roy, but the moment they were out in the street he turned to him with an eager question.

“What happened to Mr. Horner to-day?”

“He heard a discourse on the Norwegian character which happened to be in the Daily News, by good luck,” said Roy, smiling. “By-the-by, it will amuse you, take it home.”

And, drawing the folded paper from his coat-pocket, he handed it to Frithiof.

“He gave me such a furious glance as he passed by, that I was sure something had annoyed him,” said Frithiof.

“Never mind, it is the last you will have from him,” said Roy, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “He has vowed that he will never darken our doors again. Think what a reign of peace will set in.”

“He has really retired, then?” said Frithiof. “I was afraid it must be so. I can’t stand it, Roy; I can’t let you make such a sacrifice for me.”

“Sacrifice! stuff and nonsense!” said Roy cheerfully. “I have not felt so free and comfortable for an age. We shall be well rid of the old bore.”

“But his capital?”

“Goes away with him,” said Roy; “it will only be a slight inconvenience; probably he will hurt himself far more than he hurts us, and serve him right, too. If there’s a man on earth I detest it is my worthy cousin James Horner.”

Frithiof naturally shared this sentiment, yet still he felt very sorry that Mr. Horner had kept his word and left the firm, for all through the autumn he had been hoping that he might relent and that his bark would prove worse than his bite. The sense of being under such a deep obligation to the Bonifaces was far from pleasant to him; however, there seemed no help for it and he could only balance it against the great relief of being free from James Horner’s continual provocations.

Later in the evening, when supper was over, he went round to see Herr Sivertsen about some fresh work, and on returning to the model lodgings found Swanhild alone.

“Where is Sigrid?” he asked.

“She has gone in to see the Hallifields,” replied the little girl, glancing up from the newspaper which she was reading.

“You look like the picture of Mother Hubbard’s dog, that Lance is so fond of,” he said, smiling. “Your English must be getting on, or you wouldn’t care for the Daily News. Are you reading the praises of the Norse character?”

As he spoke he leaned over her shoulder to look at the letter which Roy had mentioned; but Swanhild had turned to the inner sheet and was deep in what seemed to her strangely interesting questions and answers continued down three columns. A hurried glance at the beginning showed Frithiof in large type the words, “The Romiaux Divorce Case.”

He tore the paper away from her, crushed it in his hands, and threw it straight into the fire. Swanhild looked up in sudden panic, terrified beyond measure by his white face and flashing eyes, terrified still more by the unnatural tone in his voice when he spoke.

“You are never to read such things,” he said vehemently. “Do you understand? I am your guardian and I forbid you.”

“It was only that I wanted to know about Blanche,” said Swanhild, conscious that, in some way she could not explain, he was unjust to her.

But, unluckily, the mention of Blanche’s name was just the one thing that Frithiof could not bear; he lost his self-control. “Don’t begin to argue,” he said fiercely. “You ought to have known better than to read that poisonous stuff! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

This was more than Swanhild could endure; with a sense of intolerable injury she left the parlor, locked herself into her bedroom, and cried as if her heart would break, taking good care, however, to stifle her sobs in the pillow, since she, too, had her full share of the national pride.

“It is ungenerous of him to hate poor Blanche so,” she thought to herself. “Whatever she has done I shall always love her—always. And he had no right to speak so to me, it was unfair—unfair! I didn’t know it was wrong to read the paper. Father would never have scolded me for it.”

And in this she was quite right; only a very inexperienced “guardian” could have made so great a mistake as to reproach her and hold her to blame for quite innocently touching pitch. Perhaps even Frithiof might have been wiser had not the sudden shock and the personal pain of the discovery thrown him off his balance.

When Sigrid returned in a few minutes she found him pacing the room as restlessly as any wild beast at the Zoo.

“Frithiof,” she said, “what is the matter with you? Have you and Herr Sivertsen had a quarrel?”

“The matter is this” he said hoarsely, checking his restlessness with an effort and leaning against the mantel-piece as he talked to her. “I came back just now and found Swanhild reading the newspaper—reading the Romiaux Divorce Case, thoroughly fascinated by it too.”

“I had no idea it had begun,” said Sigrid. “We so seldom see an English paper; how did this one happen to be lying about?”

“Roy gave it to me to look at an account of Norway; I didn’t know this was in it too. However, I gave Swanhild a scolding that she’ll not soon forget.”

Sigrid looked up anxiously, asking what he had said and listening with great dissatisfaction to his reply.

“You did very wrong indeed,” she said warmly. “You forget that Swanhild is perfectly innocent and ignorant; you have wronged her very cruelly, and she will feel that, though she wont understand it.”

Now Frithiof, although he was proud and hasty, was neither ungenerous nor conceited; as soon as he had cooled down and looked at the question from this point of view, he saw at once that he had been wrong.

“I will go to her and beg her pardon,” he said at length.

“No, no, not just yet,” said Sigrid, with the feeling that men were too clumsy for this sort of work. “Leave her to me.”

She rapped softly at the bedroom door and after a minute’s pause heard the key turned in the lock. When she entered the room was quite dark, and Swanhild, with her face turned away, was vigorously washing her hands. Sigrid began to hunt for some imaginary need in her box, waiting till the hands were dry before she touched on the sore subject. But presently she plunged boldly into the heart of the matter.

“Swanhild,” she said, “you are crying.”

“No,” said the child, driving back the tears that started again to her eyes at this direct assertion, and struggling hard to make her voice cheerful.

But Sigrid put her arm round her waist and drew her close.

“Frithiof told me all about it, and I think he made a great mistake in scolding you. Don’t think any more about it.”

But this was more than human nature could possibly promise; all that she had read assumed now a tenfold importance to the child. She clung to Sigrid, sobbing piteously.

“He said I ought to be ashamed of myself, but I didn’t know—I really didn’t know.”

“That was his great mistake,” said Sigrid quietly. “Now, if he had found me reading that report he might justly have reproached me, for I am old enough to know better. You see, poor Blanche has done what is very wrong, she has broken her promise to her husband and brought misery and disgrace on all who belong to her. But to pry into all the details of such sad stories does outsiders a great deal of harm; and now you have been told that, I am sure you will never want to read them again.”

This speech restored poor little Swanhild’s self-respect, but nevertheless Sigrid noticed in her face all through the evening a look of perplexity which made her quite wretched. And though Frithiof was all anxiety to make up for his hasty scolding, the look still remained, nor did it pass the next day; even the excitement of dancing the shawl dance with all the pupils looking on did not drive it away, and Sigrid began to fear that the affair had done the child serious harm. Her practical, unimaginative nature could not altogether understand Swanhild’s dreamy, pensive tendencies. She herself loved one or two people heartily, but she had no ideals, nor was she given to hero-worship. Swanhild’s extravagant love for Blanche, a love so ardent and devoted that it had lasted more than two years in spite of every discouragement, was to her utterly incomprehensible; she was vexed that the child should spend so much on so worthless an object; it seemed to her wrong and unnatural that the love of that pure, innocent little heart should be lavished on such a woman as Lady Romiaux. It was impossible for her to see how even this childish fancy was helping to mold Swanhild’s character and fit her for her work in the world; still more impossible that she should guess how the child’s love should influence Blanche herself and change the whole current of many lives.

But so it was; and while the daily life went on in its usual grooves—Frithiof at the shop, Sigrid busy with the household work, playing at the academy, and driving away thoughts of Roy with the cares of other people—little Swanhild in desperation took the step which meant so much more than she understood.

It was Sunday afternoon. Frithiof had gone for a walk with Roy, and Sigrid had been carried off by Madame Lechertier for a drive. Swanhild was alone, and likely to be alone for some time to come. “It is now or never,” she thought to herself; and opening her desk, she drew from it a letter which she had written the day before, and read it through very carefully. It ran as follows:

“Dear Sir.—It says in your prayer-book that if any can not quiet their conscience, but require comfort and counsel, they may come to any discreet and learned minister and open their grief, thus avoiding all scruple and doubtfulness. I am a Norwegian; not a member of your church, but I have often heard you preach; and will you please let me speak to you, for I am in a great trouble?

Feeling tolerably satisfied with this production, she inclosed it in an envelope, directed it to “The Rev. Charles Osmond, Guilford Square,” put on her little black fur hat and her thick jacket and fur cape, and hurried downstairs, leaving the key with the door-keeper, and making all speed in the direction of Bloomsbury.

Swanhild, though in some ways childish, as is usually the case with the youngest of the family, was in other respects a very capable little woman. She had been treated with respect and consideration, after the Norwegian custom; she had been consulted in the affairs of the little home commonwealth; and of course had been obliged to go to and from school alone every day, so she did not feel uncomfortable as she hastened along the quiet Sunday streets; indeed, her mind was so taken up with the thought of the coming interview that she scarcely noticed the passers-by, and only paused once, when a little doubtful whether she was taking the nearest way, to ask the advice of a policeman.

At length she reached Guilford Square, and her heart began to beat fast and her color to rise. All was very quiet here; not a soul was stirring; a moldy-looking statue stood beneath the trees in the garden; hospitals and institutions seemed to abound; and Mr. Osmond’s house was one of the few private houses still left in what, eighty years ago, had been a fashionable quarter.

Swanhild mounted the steps, and then, overcome with shyness, very nearly turned back and gave up her project; however, though shy she was plucky, and making a valiant effort, she rang the bell, and waited trembling, half with fear, half with excitement.

The maid-servant who opened the door had such a pleasant face that she felt a little reassured.

“Is Mr. Osmond at home?” she asked, in her very best English accent.

“Yes, miss,” said the servant.

“Then will you please give him this,” said Swanhild, handing in the neatly written letter. “And I will wait for an answer.”

She was shown into a dining-room, and after a few minutes the servant reappeared.

“Mr. Osmond will see you in the study, miss,” she said.

And Swanhild, summoning up all her courage, followed her guide, her blue eyes very wide open, her cheeks very rosy, her whole expression so deprecating, so pathetic, that the veriest ogre could not have found it in his heart to be severe with her. She glanced up quickly, caught a glimpse of a comfortable room, a blazing fire, and a tall, white-haired, white-bearded man who stood on the hearth rug. A look of astonishment and amusement just flitted over his face, then he came forward to meet her, and took her hand in his so kindly that Swanhild forgot all her fears, and at once felt at home with him.

“I am so glad to see you,” he said, making her sit down in a big chair by the fire. “I have read your note, and shall be very glad if I can help you in any way. But wait a minute. Had you not better take off that fur cape, or you will catch cold when you go out again?”

Swanhild obediently took it off.

“I didn’t know,” she said, “whether you heard confessions or not, but I want to make one if you do.”

He smiled a little, but quite kindly.

“Well, in the ordinary sense I do not hear confessions,” he said. “That is to say, I think the habit of coming regularly to confession is a bad habit, weakening to the conscience and character of the one who confesses, and liable to abuse on the part of the one who hears the confession. But the words you quoted in your letter are words with which I quite agree, and if you have anything weighing on your mind and think that I can help you, I am quite ready to listen.”

Swanhild seemed a little puzzled by the very home-like and ordinary appearance of the study. She looked round uneasily.

“Well?” said Charles Osmond, seeing her bewildered look.

“I was wondering if people kneel down when they come to confession,” said Swanhild, with a simple directness which charmed him.

“Kneel down to talk to me!” he said, with a smile in his eyes. “Why, no, my child; why should you do that? Sit there by the fire and get warm, and try to make me understand clearly what is your difficulty.”

“It is just this,” said Swanhild, now entirely at her ease. “I want to know if it is ever right to break a promise.”

“Certainly it is sometimes right,” said Charles Osmond. “For instance, if you were to promise me faithfully to pick some one’s pocket on your way home, you would be quite right to break a promise which you never had any right to make. Or if I were to say to you, ‘On no account tell any one at your home that you have been here talking to me,’ and you agreed, yet such a promise would rightly be broken, because no outsider has any right to come between you and your parents.”

“My father and mother are dead,” said Swanhild. “I live with my brother and sister, who are much older than I am—I mean really very old, you know—twenty-three. They are my guardians; and what troubles me is that last summer I did something and promised some one that I would never tell them, and now I am afraid I ought not to have done it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, ever since then there has seemed to be a difference at home, and, though I thought what I did would help Frithiof and Sigrid, and make every one happier, yet it seems to have somehow brought a cloud over the house. They have not spoken to me about it, but ever since then Frithiof has had such a sad look in his eyes.”

“Was it anything wrong that you promised to do—anything that in itself was wrong, I mean?”

“Oh, no,” said Swanhild; “the only thing that could have made it wrong was my doing it for this particular person.”

“I am afraid I can not follow you unless you tell me a little more definitely. To whom did you make this promise? To any one known to your brother and sister?”

“Yes, they both know her; we knew her in Norway, and she was to have married Frithiof; but when he came over to England he found her just going to be married to some one else. I think it was that which changed him so very much; but perhaps it was partly because at the same time we lost all our money.”

“Do your brother and sister still meet this lady?”

“Oh, no; they never see her now, and never speak of her; Sigrid is so very angry with her because she did not treat Frithiof well. But I can’t help loving her still, she is so very beautiful; and I think, perhaps, she is very sorry that she was so unkind to Frithiof.”

“How did you come across her again?” asked Charles Osmond.

“Quite accidentally in the street, as I came home from school,” said Swanhild. “She asked me so many questions and seemed so sorry to know that we were so very poor, and when she asked me to do this thing for her I only thought how kind she was, and I did it, and promised that I would never tell.”

“She had no right to make you promise that, for probably your brother would not care for you still to know her, and certainly would not wish to be under any obligation to her.”

“No; that was the reason why it was all to be a secret,” said Swanhild. “And I never quite understood that it was wrong till the other day, when I was reading the newspaper about her, and Frithiof found me and was so very angry, and threw the paper in the fire.”

“How did the lady’s name happen to be in the paper?”

“Sigrid said it was because she had broken her promise to her husband; it was written in very big letters—‘The Romiaux Divorce Case,’” said Swanhild.

Charles Osmond started. For some minutes he was quite silent. Then, his eyes falling once more on the wistful little face that was trying so hard to read his thoughts, he smiled very kindly.

“Do you know where Lady Romiaux is living?” he asked. But Swanhild had no idea. “Well, never mind; I think I can easily find out, for I happen to know one of the barristers who was defending her. You had better, I think, sit down at my desk and write her just a few lines, asking her to release you from your promise; I will take it to her at once, and if you like you can wait here till I bring back the answer.”

“But that will be giving you so much trouble,” said Swanhild, “and on Sunday, too, when you have so much to do.”

He took out his watch.

“I shall have plenty of time,” he said, “and if I am fortunate enough to find Lady Romiaux, you shall soon get rid of your trouble.”