“I have some news for you,” said Mr. Horner to his wife a few days after this, as one evening he entered the drawing-room. The huge gold clock with the little white face pointed to the hour of eight, the golden pigs still climbed the golden hill, the golden swineherd still leaned meditatively on his golden staff. Mrs. Horner, arrayed in peacock-blue satin, glanced from her husband to the clock and back again to her husband.

“News?” she said in a distinctly discouraging tone “Is it that which makes you so late? However, it’s of no consequence to me if the dinner is spoiled, quite the contrary, I am not particular. But I beg you wont grumble if the meat is done to a cinder.”

“Never mind the dinner,” replied Mr. Horner captiously. “I have other things to think of than overdone joints. That fool Boniface has taken me at my word, and actually doesn’t intend to renew the partnership.”

“What!” cried his wife, “not now that all this affair is cleared up, and you have apologized so handsomely to young Falck?”

“No; it’s perfectly disgraceful,” said James Horner, looking like an angry turkey-cock as he paced to and fro. “I shook hands with Falck and told him I was sorry to have misjudged him, and even owned to Boniface that I had spoken hastily, but would you believe it, he wont reconsider the matter. He not only gives me the sack but he takes in my place that scheming Norwegian.”

“But the fellow has no capital,” cried Mrs. Horner, in great agitation. “He is as poor as a rook! He hasn’t a single penny to put into the concern.”

“Precisely. But Boniface is such a fool that he overlooks that and does nothing but talk of his great business capacities, his industry, his good address, and a lot of other rubbish of that sort. Why without money a fellow is worth nothing—absolutely nothing.”

“From the first I detested him,” said Mrs. Horner. “I knew that the Bonifaces were deceived in him. It’s my belief that although his character is cleared as to this five-pound note business, yet he is really a mere adventurer. Depend upon it he’ll manage to get everything into his own hands, and will be ousting Roy one of these days.”

“Well, he’s hardly likely to do that, for it seems the sister has been keeping her eyes open, and that idiot of a Roy is going to marry her.”

“To marry Sigrid Falck?” exclaimed Mrs. Horner, starting to her feet. “Actually to bring into the family a girl who plays at dancing-classes and parties—a girl who sweeps her own house and cooks her own dinner!”

“I don’t know that she is any the worse for doing that,” said James Horner. “It’s not the girl herself that I object to, for she’s pretty and pleasant enough, but the connection, the being related by marriage to that odious Falck, who has treated me so insufferably, who looks down on me and is as stand-offish as if he were an emperor.”

“If there is one thing I do detest,” said Mrs. Horner, “it is pushing people—a sure sign of vulgarity. But it’s partly Loveday’s fault. If I had had to deal with the Falcks they would have been taught their proper place, and all this would not have happened.”

At this moment dinner was announced. The overdone meat did not improve Mr. Horner’s temper, and when the servants had left the room he broke out into fresh invectives against the Bonifaces.

“When is the wedding to be?” asked his wife.

“Some time in February, I believe. They are house-furnishing already.”

Mrs. Horner gave an ejaculation of annoyance.

“Well, the sooner we leave London the better,” she said. “I’m not going to be mixed up with all this; we’ll avoid any open breach with the family of course, but for goodness’ sake do let the house and let us settle down elsewhere. There’s that house at Croydon I was very partial to, and you could go up and down easy enough from there.”

“We’ll think of it,” said Mr. Horner reflectively. “And, by the by, must, I suppose, get them some sort of wedding present.”

“By good luck,” said Mrs. Horner, “I won a sofa-cushion last week in a raffle at the bazaar for the chapel organ fund. It’s quite good enough for them, I’m sure. I did half think of sending it to the youngest Miss Smith, who is to be married on New Year’s Day, but they’re such rich people that I suppose I must send them something a little more showy and expensive. This will do very well for Sigrid Falck.”

Luckily the opinion of outsiders did not at all mar the happiness of the two lovers. They were charmed to hear that the Horners were leaving London, and when in due time the sofa-cushion arrived, surmounted by Mrs. Horner’s card, Sigrid, who had been in the blessed condition of expecting nothing, was able to write a charming little note of thanks, which by its straightforward simplicity, made the donor blush with an uncomfortable sense of guilt.

“And after all,” remarked Sigrid to Cecil, “we really owe a great deal to Mrs. Horner, for if she had not asked me to that children’s fancy ball I should never have met Madame Lechertier, and how could we ever have lived all together if it had not been for that?”

“In those days I think Mrs. Horner rather liked you, but somehow you have offended her.”

“Why of course it was by earning my living and setting up in model lodgings; I utterly shocked all her ideas of propriety, and, when once you do that, good-by to all hopes of remaining in Mrs. Horner’s good books. It would have grieved me to displease any of your relations if you yourselves cared for them, but the Horners—well, I can not pretend to care the least about them.”

The two girls were in the little sitting-room of the model lodgings, putting the finishing touches to the white cashmere wedding-dress which Sigrid had cut out and made for herself during the quiet days they had spent at Rowan Tree House. Every one entered most heartily into all the busy preparations, and Sigrid could not help thinking to herself that the best proof that trouble had not spoiled or soured the lives either of Cecil or Frithiof lay in their keen enjoyment of other people’s happiness.

The wedding was to be extremely quiet. Early in the morning, when Cecil went to see if she could be of any use, she found the bride-elect in her usual black dress and her housekeeping apron of brown holland, busily packing Frithiof’s portmanteau.

“Oh, let me do it for you,” she said. “The idea of your toiling away to-day just as if you were not going to be married!”

Sigrid laughed merrily.

“Must brides sit and do nothing until the ceremony?” she asked. “If so, I am sorry for them; I couldn’t sit still if I were to try. How glad I am to think Frithiof and Swanhild will be at Rowan Tree House while we are away! I should never have had a moment’s peace if I had left them here, for Swanhild is, after all, only a child. It is so good of Mrs. Boniface to have asked them.”

“Since you are taking Roy away from us, I think it is the least you could do,” said Cecil, laughing. “It will be such a help to have them this evening, for otherwise we should all be feeling very flat, I know.”

“And we shall be on our way to the Riviera,” said Sigrid, pausing for a few minutes in her busy preparations; a dreamy look came into her clear, practical eyes, and she let her head rest against the side of the bed.

“Sometimes, do you know,” she exclaimed, “I can’t believe this is all real, I think I am just imagining it all, and that I shall wake up presently and find myself playing the Myosotis waltz at the academy—it was always such a good tune to dream to.”

“Wait,” said Cecil; “does this make it feel more real,” and hastily going into the outer room she returned bearing the lovely wedding bouquet which Roy had sent.

“Lilies of the valley!” exclaimed Sigrid. “Oh, how exquisite! And myrtle and eucharist lilies—it is the most beautiful bouquet I ever saw.”

“Don’t you think it is time you were dressing,” said Cecil. “Come, sit down and let me do your hair for you while you enjoy your flowers.”

“But Swanhild’s packing—I don’t think it is quite finished.”

“Never mind, I will come back this afternoon with her and finish everything; you must let us help you a little just for once.”

And then, as she brushed out the long, golden hair, she thought how few brides showed Sigrid’s wonderful unselfishness and care for others, and somehow wished that Roy could have seen her just as she was, in her working-day apron, too full of household arrangements to spend much time over her own toilet.

Swanhild, already dressed in her white cashmere and pretty white beaver hat, danced in and out of the room fetching and carrying, and before long the bride, too, was dressed, and with her long tulle veil over the dainty little wreath of real orange blossom from Madame Lechertier’s greenhouse, and the homemade dress which fitted admirably, she walked into the little sitting-room to show herself to Frithiof.

“I shall hold up your train, Sigrid, in case the floor is at all dusty,” said Swanhild, much enjoying the excitement of the first wedding in the family, and determined not to think of the parting till it actually came.

Frithiof made an involuntary exclamation as she entered the room.

“You look like Ingeborg,” he said, “when she came into the new temple of Balder.”

quoted Swanhild in Norse from the old saga, looking roguishly up at her tall brother.

Sigrid laughed and turned to Cecil.

“She says that I am the moon and shine with a borrowed light, and that you are the stars with light of your own. By-the-by, where is my other little bridesmaid?”

“Gwen is to meet us at the church,” explained Cecil. “Do you know I think the carriage must be waiting, for I see the eldest little Hallifield tearing across the court-yard.”

“Then I must say good-by to every one,” said Sigrid; and with one last look round the little home which had grown so dear to them, she took Frithiof’s arm and went out into the long stone passage, where a group of the neighbors stood waiting to see the last of her, and to give her their hearty good wishes. She had a word and a smile for every one, and they all followed her down the stairs and across the court-yard and stood waving their hands as the carriage drove off.

That chapter of her life was ended, and the busy hive of workers would no longer count her as queen-bee of the establishment. The cares and troubles and wearing economies were things of the past, but she would take with her and keep forever many happy memories; and many friendships would still last and give her an excuse for visiting afterward the scene of her first home in London.

She was quite silent as they drove through the busy streets, her eyes had again that sweet, dreamy look in them that Cecil had noticed earlier in the morning; she did not seem to see outward things, until after a while her eyes met Frithiof’s, and then her face, which had been rather grave, broke into sudden brightness, and she said a few words to him in Norse, which he replied to with a look so full of loving pride and contentment that it carried the sunshine straight into Cecil’s heart.

“This marriage is a capital thing for him,” she thought to herself. “He will be happy in her happiness.”

By this time they had reached the church; Lance, in the dress he had worn at Mrs. Horner’s fancy ball, stood ready to hold the bride’s train, and Gwen came running up to take her place in the little procession.

A few spectators had dropped in, but the church was very quiet, and up in the chancel there were only Roy and his best man, Madame Lechertier, old Herr Sivertsen, and the father and mother of the bridegroom. Charles Osmond read the service, and his pretty daughter-in-law had begged leave to play the organ, for she had taken a fancy not only to little Swanhild, but to the whole family, when at her father-in-law’s request she had called upon them. After the wedding was over and the procession had once more passed down the aisle, she still went on playing, having a love of finishing in her nature. Charles Osmond came out of the vestry and stood beside her.

“I am glad you played for them,” he said when the last chord had been struck. “It was not at all the sort of wedding to be without music.”

“It was one of the nicest weddings I was ever at,” she said: “and as to your Norseman—he is all you said, and more. Do you know, there is a strong look about him which somehow made me think of my father. Oh! I do hope he will be able to pay off the debts.”

“There is only one thing which could hinder him,” said Charles Osmond.

“What is that?” asked Erica, looking up quickly.

“Death,” he replied quietly.

She made no answer, but the word did not jar upon her, for she was one of those who have learned that death is indeed the Gate of Life.

Silently she pushed in the stops and locked the organ.