Here were the true facts, and she must make the best she could of them. The thought somehow braced her up. Was “the best” to sit there in her room sobbing as if her heart would break? How could her tears serve Frithiof? How could they do anything but weaken her own character and unfit her for work? They did not even relieve her, for such pain is to be relieved, not by tears, but by active life. No, she must just go on living and making the most of what had been given her, leaving the rest “In His high hand Who doth hearts like streams command.” For her faith was no vague shadow, but a most practical reality, and in all her pain she was certain that somehow this love of hers was to be of use, as all real love is bound to be. She stood for some minutes at the open window; a bird was perched on a tree close by, and she watched it and noticed how, when suddenly it flew away, the branch quivered and trembled. “It is after all only natural to feel this going away,” she reflected. “Like the tree, I shall soon grow steady again.” And then she heard Lance’s voice calling her, and, going to the nursery, found a childish dispute in need of settling, and tiny arms to cling about her, and soft kisses to comfort her. Meanwhile, Frithiof and Sigrid had reached the model lodgings, and, key in hand, were toiling up the long flights of stone stairs. All had been arranged on the previous day, and now, as they unlocked their door, the moment seemed to them a grave one, for they were about to begin a new and unknown life. Sigrid’s heart beat quickly as they entered the little sitting-room. The door opened straight into it, which was a drawback, but Mrs. Boniface’s present of a fourfold Japanese screen gave warmth and privacy, and picturesqueness, by shutting off that corner from view; and, in spite of extreme economy in furnishing, the place looked very pretty. A cheerful crimson carpet covered the floor, the buff-colored walls were bare indeed, for there was a rule against knocking in nails, but the picture of Bergen stood on the mantel-piece between the photographs of their father and mother, serving as a continual remembrance of home and of a countryman’s kindness. Facing the fire was a cottage piano lent by Mr. Boniface for as long as they liked to keep it, and on the open shelves above a corner cupboard were ranged the blue willow-pattern cups and saucers which Sigrid had delighted in buying. “They were much too effective to be banished to the kitchen, were they not?” she said. “I am sure they are far prettier than a great deal of the rare old china I have seen put up in drawing-rooms.” “How about the fire?” said Frithiof. “Shall I light it?”