Sigrid could not reply, for she felt choked. She stood sadly watching the child as she bent down, partly to hide her tears, partly to replace a flower which had slipped out of one of the wreaths. It was just that sense of having nothing to look forward to which had weighed so heavily on Sigrid herself all these months; she had passed very bravely through all the troubles as long as there had been anything to do; but now that all the arrangements were made, the villa in Kalvedalen sold, the furniture disposed of, the new home in her uncle’s house grown familiar, her courage almost failed her, and each day she realized more bitterly how desolate and forlorn was their position. The first sympathetic kindness of her aunt and cousins had, moreover, had time to fade a little, and she became growingly conscious that their adoption into the Grönvold family was an inconvenience. The house was comfortable but not too large, and the two sisters occupied the only spare room, so that it was no longer possible to have visitors. The income was fairly good, but times were hard, and even before their arrival Fru Grönvold had begun to practice a few little economies, which increased during the winter, and became more apparent to all the family. This was depressing enough: and then, as Swanhild had said, there was nothing to which she could look forward, for Frithiof’s prospects seemed to her altogether blighted, and she foresaw that all he was likely to earn for some time to come would only suffice to keep himself, and could by no possibility support three people. Very sadly she left the cemetery, pausing again to struggle with the stiff gate, while Swanhild held the empty flower-baskets. “Can’t you do it?” exclaimed the child. “What a tiresome gate it is! worse to fasten than to unfasten. But see! here come the Lundgrens. They will help.” Sigrid glanced round, blushing vividly as she met the eager eyes of Torvald Lundgren, one of Frithiof’s school friends. The greetings were frank and friendly on both sides, and Madale, a tall, pretty girl of sixteen, with her hair braided into one long, thick plait, took little Swanhild’s arm and walked on with her. “Let us leave those two to settle the gate between them,” she said, smiling. “It is far too cold to wait for them.” Now Torvald Lundgren was a year or two older than Frithiof, and having long been in a position of authority he was unusually old for his age. As a friend Sigrid liked him, but of late she had half-feared that he wished to be more than a friend, and consequently she was not well pleased to see that, by the time the gate was actually shut, Madale and Swanhild were far in advance of them. “Have you heard from Frithiof yet?” she asked, walking on briskly. “No,” said Torvald. “Pray scold him well for me when you next write. How does he seem? In better spirits again?”