“Oh, dear, no,” said Cecil. “You see, she herself is in mourning; and besides, you look charming, Sigrid.” The compliment was quite truthful, for Sigrid, in her quiet black dress, which suited her slim figure to perfection, the simple folds of white net about her neck, and the delicate blush roses and maidenhair which Roy had gathered for her, certainly looked the most charming little woman imaginable. “I wish you could come, too,” said Cecil, glancing at Frithiof, while she swathed the little prince in a thick plaid. “It will be very pretty to see all the children in costume.” “Yes,” he replied; “but my head would never stand the noise and the heat. I am better here.” “We shall take great care of him,” said Mrs. Boniface; “and you must tell us all about it afterward. Don’t keep Lance up late if he seems to get tired, dearie. Good-by, and mind you enjoy yourself.” “There goes a happy quartet,” said Mr. Boniface, as he closed the door behind them. “But here, to my way of thinking, is a more enviable trio. Did you ever see this book, Frithiof?” Since his illness they had fallen into the habit of calling him by his Christian name, for he had become almost like one of the family. Even in his worst days they had all been fond of him, and now in these days of his convalescence, when physical suffering had brought out the gentler side of his nature, and his strength of character was shown rather in silent patience than in dogged and desperate energy, as of old, he had won all hearts. The proud, willful isolation which had made his fellow-workers detest him had been broken down at length, and gratitude for all the kindness he had received at Rowan Tree House had so changed him that it seemed unlikely that he would ever sink again into such an extremity of hard bitterness. His laughter over the book which Mr. Boniface had brought him seemed to his host and hostess a promising sign, and over “Three in Norway” these three in England passed the pleasant evening which Mr. Boniface had predicted.