“I have a pet Society of my own,” he used to say with a smile. “It is the Keeping at Home Society. Every householder is his own president, and the committee is formed by his family.” Notwithstanding this, he was the most widely charitable man, and was always ready to lend a helping hand; but he loved to work quietly, and all who belonged to him caught something of the same tone, so that in the house there was a total absence of that wearing whirl of good works in which many people live nowadays, and though perhaps they had not so many irons in the fire, yet the work they did was better done in consequence, and the home remained what it was meant to be, a center of love and life, not a mere eating-house and dormitory. Into the midst of this home there had come now some strangely fresh elements. Three distinct romances were being worked out beneath that quiet roof. There was poor Frithiof with his shattered life, his past an agony which would scarcely bear thinking of, his future a desperate struggle with circumstances. There was Cecil, whose life was so far bound up with his that when he suffered she suffered too, yet had to live on with a serene face and make no sign. There was Roy already madly in love with the blue-eyed, fair-haired Sigrid, who seemed in the glad reaction after all her troubles to have developed into a totally different being, and was the life of the party. And yet in spite of the inevitable pain of love, these were happy days for all of them. Happy to Frithiof because his strength was returning to him; because, with an iron resolution, he as far as possible shut out the remembrance of Blanche; because the spirit life within him was slowly developing, and for the first time he had become conscious that it was a reality. Happy for Cecil, because her love was no foolish sentimentality, no selfish day-dream, but a noble love which taught her more than anything else could possibly have done; because, instead of pining away at the thought that Frithiof was utterly indifferent to her, she took it on trust that God would withhold from her no really good thing, and made the most of the trifling ways in which she could at present help him. Happiest of all perhaps for Roy, because his love-story was full of bright hope—a hope that each day grew fuller and clearer. “Robin,” said Mrs. Boniface, one evening, to her husband, as together they paced to and fro in the veranda, while Frithiof was being initiated into lawn-tennis in the garden, “I think Sigrid Falck is one of the sweetest girls I ever saw.” “So thinks some one else, if I am not much mistaken,” he replied. “Then you, too, have noticed it. I am so glad. I hoped it was so, but could not feel sure. Oh, Robin, I wonder if he has any chance? She would make him such a sweet little wife!” “How can we tell that she has not left her heart in Norway?”