On the following Monday afternoon, Roy Boniface, pale and worn with all that he had been through, paced the arrival platform at King’s Cross Station. Already the train from Hull was signaled and he longed for Sigrid’s advent, yet dreaded unspeakably the first few moments, the hurried questions, the sad answers that must follow. The steamer had been hindered by a fog, and the passengers had not been landed at Hull until that morning, so that Sigrid had only had time to telegraph the hour of her arrival, and had been unable to wait for a reply to tell her of Frithiof’s state. He should have to tell her all—tell her amid the unsympathizing crowd which jarred upon him even now; for during the last few days he had lived so entirely with his patient that the outer world seemed strange to him. His heart beat quickly as the engine darted into sight and one carriage after another flitted past him. For a minute he could nowhere see her; but hastening up the platform, and closely scanning the travelers, he at length caught sight of the golden hair and black dress which he had been imagining to himself, and heard the clear voice saying, with something of Frithiof’s quiet decision: “It is a black trunk from Hull, and the name is Falck.” Roy came quickly forward, and the instant she caught sight of him all her calmness vanished. “Frithiof?” she asked, as he took her hand in his. “He is still living,” said Roy, not daring to give an evasive answer to the blue eyes which seemed to look into his very heart. Whether she had feared the worst, or had hoped for better news, he could hardly tell; she turned deathly white, and her lips quivered piteously. “I will see to your luggage,” he said; “but before you go to him you must have something to eat; I see you are quite worn out with the long journey, and unless you are calm, you will only agitate him.” She did not speak a word, but passively allowed him to take her to the refreshment-room and get her some tea; she even made a faint effort to attack the roll and butter which had been placed before her, but felt too completely tired out to get on with it. Roy, seeing how matters were, quietly drew the plate away, cut the roll into thin slices, and himself spread them for her. It was months since they had parted at Balholm as friendly fellow-travelers, yet it seemed now to Sigrid the most natural thing in the world to depend on him, while he, at the first glimpse of her questioning face, at the first grasp of her hand, had realized that he loved her. After her lonely journey, with its lack of sympathy, it was inexpressibly comforting to her to have beside her one who seemed instantly to perceive just what she needed. To please him she tried hard to eat and drink, and before long they were driving to Vauxhall, and all fear lest she should break down was over. “Now,” she said at last, “tell me more about his illness. What brought it on?”