Her words startled him; everything connected with Christianity had been to him lifeless, unreal, formal—something utterly apart from the every-day life of a nineteenth century man. She had told him that to her religion meant “knowing” and “loving,” and he now perceived that by “loving” she meant the active living of the Christ-life, the constant endeavor to do the will of God. She had not actually said this in so many words, but he knew more plainly than if she had spoken that this was her meaning. They paced in silence the shady garden walk. To Frithiof the whole world seemed wider than it had ever been before. On the deadly monotony of his business life there had arisen a light which altogether transformed it. He did his best even now to quench its brightness, and said to himself, “This will not last; I shall hate desk and counter and all the rest of it as badly as ever when I go back.” For it was his habit since Blanche had deceived him to doubt the lastingness of all that he desired to keep. Still, though he doubted for the future, the present was wonderfully changed, and the new idea that had come into his life was the best medicine he could have had. Sigrid watched his returning strength with delight; indeed, perhaps she never realized what he had been during his lonely months of London life. She had not seen the bitterness, the depression, the hardness, the too evident deterioration which had saddened Cecil’s heart through the winter and spring; and she could not see as Cecil saw how he was struggling up now into a nobler manhood. Roy instinctively felt it. Mr. Boniface, with his ready sympathy and keen insight, found out something of the true state of the case; but only Cecil actually knew it. She had had to bear the worst of the suffering all through those long months, and it was but fair that the joy should be hers alone. Frithiof hardly knew which part of the day was most pleasant to him, the quiet mornings after Mr. Boniface and Roy had gone to town, when he and Sigrid were left to their own devices; the pleasant little break at eleven, when Mrs. Boniface looked in to remind them that fruit was good in the morning, and to tempt him with pears and grapes, while Cecil and the two children came in from the garden, bringing with them a sense of freshness and life; the drowsy summer afternoon when he dozed over a novel; the drive in the cool of the day, and the delightful home evenings with music and reading aloud. Quiet the life was, it is true, but dull never. Every one had plenty to do, yet not too much, for Mr. Boniface had a horror of the modern craze for rushing into all sorts of philanthropic undertakings, would have nothing to do with bazaars, groaned inwardly when he was obliged by a sense of duty to attend any public meeting, and protested vehemently against the multiplication of “Societies.”