And one of the white-sleeved servant-girls brought a little chair which stood by a long wooden settle, and put it close by the fire for the child, and Sigrid, her purchase made, joined the little group, and sat silently warming her hands, finding a sort of comfort in the mere physical heat, and in the relief of being away from her aunt. The landlady told Swanhild stories, and Sigrid listened dreamily, letting her thoughts wander off now and then to Frithiof, or back into the far past, or away into the future which looked so dreary. Still the kindness of these people, and the interest and novelty of her glimpse into a different sort of life, warmed her heart and cheered her a little. Sitting there in the firelight she felt more at home than she had done for many months. “Come, Swanhild,” she said at last reluctantly, “it is ten o’clock, and time you were in bed.” And thanking the landlady for her kindness, the two sisters crossed over the courtyard to the sitting-room, where Fru Grönvold was watching the progress of a rubber in which Karen was Major Brown’s partner, and had just incurred his wrath by revoking. “Where in the world have you been?” said Fru Grönvold, knitting vehemently. “We couldn’t think what had become of you both.” “I went to the kitchen to get some stamps,” said Sigrid coldly. She always resented her aunt’s questioning. “And it was so lovely and warm in there,” said Swanhild gayly, “and Fru Hjerkin has been telling me such beautiful stories about the Trolds. Her mother really saw one, do you know.” After this a cold good-night was exchanged, and Fru Grönvold’s brow grew darker still when Major Brown called out in his hearty way: “What, going so early, Miss Falck? We have missed you sadly to-night.” Then, as she said something about the English mail, “Yes, yes, quite right. And I ought to be writing home, too, instead of playing.” “That means that he will not have another rubber,” thought Sigrid, as she hurried down the hill to the _dépendence_, “and I shall be blamed for it.” She fell into a state of blank depression, and long after Swanhild was fast asleep she sat struggling with the English letter, which, do what she would, refused to have a cheerful tone forced into it. “The only comfort is,” she thought, “that the worst has happened to us; what comes now must be for the better. How the wind is raging round the house and shrieking at the windows! And, oh, how dreary and wretched this life is!” And in very low spirits she blew out the candle, and lay down to sleep as best she might in a bed which shook beneath her in the gale.