Having established Swanhild at the writing-table, Charles Osmond left her for a few minutes and went up to the drawing-room; it was one of those comfortable, old-fashioned rooms which one seldom sees now, and resting on the sofa was one of those old-world ladies whose sweet graciousness has such a charm to the more restless end of the nineteenth century. No less than four generations were represented in the room, for by the fire sat Charles Osmond’s daughter-in-law, and on her knee was her baby son—the delight of the whole house.

“Erica,” he said, coming toward the hearth, “strangely enough the very opportunity I wanted has come. I have been asked to see Lady Romiaux on a matter connected with some one who once knew her, so you see it is possible that after all your wish may come true, and I may be of some use to her.”

Erica looked up eagerly, her face which in repose was sad, brightened wonderfully.

“How glad I am, father! You know Donovan always said there was so much that was really good in her, if only some one could draw it out.”

“How did the case end?” asked Mrs. Osmond.

“It ended in a disagreement of the jury,” replied her son, “Why, I can’t understand, for the evidence was utterly against her, according to Ferguson. I am just going round to see him now, and find out her address from him, and in the mean time there’s a dear little Norwegian girl in my study, who will wait till I bring back an answer. Would you like her to come up here?”

“Yes, yes,” said Erica, “by all means let us have her if she can talk English. Rae is waking up, you see, and we will come down and fetch her.”

Swanhild had just finished her letter when the door of the study opened, and looking up she saw Charles Osmond once more, and beside him a lady who seemed to her more lovely than Blanche; she was a good deal older than Lady Romiaux and less strikingly beautiful, but there was something in her creamy-white coloring and short auburn hair, something in the mingled sadness and sweetness of her face that took Swanhild’s heart by storm.

“This is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Brian Osmond, and this is my grandson,” said Charles Osmond, allowing Rae’s tiny fingers to play with his long white beard.

“Will you come upstairs and stay with us till Mr. Osmond comes back?” said Erica, shaking hands with her, and wondering not a little what connection there could be between this fair-haired, innocent little Norse girl and Lady Romiaux. And then seeing that Swanhild was shy she kept her hand in hers and led her up to the drawing-room, where, with the baby to play with, she was soon perfectly happy, and chattering away fast enough to the great amusement of old Mrs. Osmond, who heard the whole story of the model lodgings, of the dancing classes, and of the old home in Norway.

In the mean while Charles Osmond had reached his friend’s chambers, and to his great satisfaction found him in.

“As far as I know,” replied Mr. Ferguson, “Lady Romiaux is still in lodgings in George Street.” He drew a card from his pocket-book and handed it to the clergyman. “That’s the number; and to my certain knowledge she was there yesterday. Her father wont have anything to do with her.”

“Poor child!” said Charles Osmond, half to himself, “I wonder what will become of her?”

Mr. Ferguson shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, she’s brought it all on herself,” he said. “There is no doubt whatever that she is guilty, and how the jury disagreed I’m sure I don’t know.”

Charles Osmond did not stay to discuss the matter, but made the best of his way to George Street, and sent in his card with a request that Lady Romiaux would, if possible, see him on a matter of business.

In a minute or two he was ushered into a drawing-room, which had the comfortless air of most lodging-house rooms; standing on the hearthrug was a young, delicate-looking girl; for a moment he did not recognize her as the Lady Romiaux whose portraits were so well known, for trouble had sadly spoiled her beauty, and her eyelids were red and swollen, either with want of sleep or with many tears.

She bowed, then meeting his kindly eyes, the first eyes she had seen for so long which did not stare at her in hateful curiosity, or glance at her with shrinking disapproval, she came quickly forward and put her hand in his.

“For what reason can you have come?” she exclaimed; “you of all men.”

He was struck with the wild look in her great dark eyes, and intuitively knew that other work than the delivery of little Swanhild’s letter awaited him here.

“Why do you say, ‘Of all men’ in that tone?” he asked.

“Because you are one of the very few men who ever made me wish to do right,” she said quickly. “Because I used sometimes to come to your church—till—till I did not dare to come, because what you said made me so miserable!”

“My poor child,” he said; “there are worse things than to be miserable; you are miserable now, but your very misery may lead you to peace.”

“No, no,” she sobbed, sinking down on the sofa and hiding her face in her hands. “My life is over—there is nothing left for me. And yet,” she cried, lifting her head and turning her wild eyes toward him, “yet I have not the courage to die, even though my life is a misery to me and a snare to every one I come across.”

“Are you alone here?” he asked.

“Yes; my father and mother will have nothing to say to me—and there is no one else—I mean no one else that I would have.”

He breathed more freely.

“You must not say your life is over,” he replied. “Your life in society is over, it is true, but there is something much better than that which you may now begin. Be sure that if you wish to do right it is still possible for you.”

“Ah, but I can’t trust myself.” she sobbed. “It will be so very difficult all alone.”

“Leave that for God to arrange,” he said. “Your part is to trust to Him and try your best to do right. Tell me, do you not know my friend Donovan Farrant, the member for Greyshot?”

She brushed the tears from her eyes and looked up more quietly.

“I met him once at a country house in Mountshire,” she said, “He and his wife were there just for two days, and they were so good to me. I think he guessed that I was in danger then, for one day he walked with me in the grounds, and he spoke to me as no one had ever spoken before. He saw that my husband and I had quarreled, and he saw that I was flirting out of spite with—with—well, no matter! But he spoke straight out, so that if it hadn’t been for his wonderful tact and goodness I should have been furious with him. And he told me how the thing that had saved him all through his life was the influence of good women; and just for a few days I did want to be good, and to use my power rightly. But the Farrants went away, and I vexed my husband again and we had another quarrel, and when he was gone down to speak at Colonel Adair’s election, I went to stay, against his wish, at Belcroft Park; and when I had done that, it seemed as if I were running right down a steep hill and really couldn’t stop myself.”

“But now,” said Charles Osmond, “you must begin to climb the hill once more. You must be wondering through all this time what was the errand that brought me here. I brought you this letter from a little Norwegian girl—Swanhild Falck. In the midst of your great trouble I dare say her trouble will seem very trifling, still I hope you will be able to release her from her promise, for it is evidently weighing on her mind.”

“That’s another instance of the harm I do wherever I go,” said poor Blanche, reading the letter, “and in this case I was really trying to undo the past, very foolishly as I see now. Tell Swanhild that she is quite free from her promise, and that if it has done harm I am sorry. But I always do harm! Do you remember that story of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s about the daughter of the botanist, who was brought up on the juices of a beautiful poison-plant, and who poisoned with her breath every one that came near her? I think I am like that.”

“I remember it,” he replied. “A weird, unwholesome story. But if I remember right, the heroine died herself rather than poison others.”

“Yes, and that is what I wish to do,” she said, with once more that look in her eyes which had startled him. “But I am a coward; I haven’t the courage.”

“Wait,” he said gravely: “there is a real truth in your idea, but do not set about it in a wrong way. To seek physical death would only be to take another wrong step. It is not you, but your selfishness that must die.”

“But if I were not what you would call selfish, if I did not love to attract men and make them do just what I please, if I did not enjoy the feeling that they are in love with me, I should no longer be myself,” she said.

“You would no longer be your false self,” he replied. “You would be your true self. Do you think God made you beautiful that you might be a snare in the world? He made you to be a joy and a blessing, and you have abused one of his best gifts.”

She began to cry again, to sob piteously, almost like a child.

Charles Osmond spoke once more, and there was a great tenderness in his voice.

“You have found now that self-pleasing brings misery to yourself and every one else. I know you wish to do right, but you must do more than that; you must resolutely give your body, soul, and spirit to God, desiring only to do his will.”

She looked up once more, speaking with the vehemence of despair.

“Oh,” she said, “it seems all real now while I talk to you, but I know it will fade away, and the temptations will be much more strong. You don’t know what the world is—you are good, and you have no time to see with your own eyes how, underneath all that is so respectable, it is hollow and wicked.”

“It will be your own fault if you are not stronger than the temptations with which God allows you to be assailed,” he said. “You loathe and fear evil, and that is a step in the right direction, but now you must turn right away from it, and learn to look at purity, and goodness, and love. Don’t believe that vice is to conquer—that is the devil’s lie. The strength of the Infinite the love of the All-Father will conquer—and that love and that strength are for you.”

“What!” sobbed Blanche, “for a woman who has dishonored her name—a woman cast out of society?”

Charles Osmond took her hand in his strong, firm clasp.

“Yes, my child,” he said, “they are for you.”

There was a long silence.

“And now,” he said, at length, “unless you have any other friends to whom you would rather go, I am going to ask you to come home with me. I can promise you at least rest and shelter, and a welcome from my dear old mother, who, being very near to the other world, does not judge people after the custom of this one.”

“But,” she said, with a look of mingled relief and perplexity, “how can I let you do so much for a mere stranger? Oh, I should like to come—but—but—”

“You are no longer a stranger,” he replied, “And you must not refuse me this. You shall see no one at all if you prefer it. Ours is a busy house, but in some ways it is the quietest house in London. My son and his wife live with us. They, too, will be so glad if we can be of any use to you. Come, I can not leave you here in this loneliness.”

“Do you mean that I am to come now?” she said, starting up.

“Yes, if you will,” he replied. “But I will go and call a hansom; and since I am in rather a hurry, perhaps you will let your maid follow with your things later on in the evening.”

So in a few minutes they were driving together to Guilford Square, and Blanche was transplanted from her miserable loneliness into the heart of one of the happiest homes in the country. Leaving her in the study, Charles Osmond went in search of Swanhild.

“It is all right,” he said, handing her a little note in Blanche’s writing; and while the child eagerly read it he turned to his daughter-in-law.

“Will you tell them to get the spare room ready, Erica, dear?” he said. “I have persuaded Lady Romiaux to stay with us for a little while.”

Swanhild caught the words, and longed to ask to see Blanche, but she remembered that Sigrid would not like it; and then, with a sudden recollection that the afternoon was almost over, and that she must go home, she thanked Charles Osmond, reluctantly parted with the baby, kissed old Mrs. Osmond and Erica, who made her promise to come and see them again, and hurried back to the model lodgings.

Her happiness and relief, and the pleasurable excitement of having learned to know a new and delightful family, were slightly clouded by the uncomfortable thought of the confession that lay before her. What would Frithiof and Sigrid say to her? And how should she put into words the story of what she more and more felt to have been a wrong and foolish, and very childish scheme of help?

“Oh, how I wish it were over!” she thought, to herself, as she marched on to her disagreeable work like a little Trojan. Big Ben was striking five as she crossed the court-yard. She had been away from home more than two hours. She hurried on to the porter’s office, and asked breathlessly for the key.

“Mr. Falck took it ten minutes ago,” said the man.

And Swanhild turned away with a sigh and a little shiver, and began very slowly to mount the stone stairs.

“Oh! what will he say to me?” she thought, as she clasped Blanche’s note fast in her little cold hands.