“In consequence of which he doesn’t get through half as much work for me,” said Herr Sivertsen. “However, you are quite right. He needed more exercise. Is he quite well again?” “Quite well, thank you; though I suppose he will never be so strong as he once was,” she said a little sadly. “You see, overwork and trouble and poor living must in the long run injure even a strong man.” “There are no strong men nowadays, it seems to me,” said the old author gruffly. “They all knock up sooner or later—a degenerate race—a worthless generation.” “Well, the doctor says he must have had a very fine constitution to have recovered so fast,” said Sigrid. “Still, I feel rather afraid sometimes of his doing too much again. Were you going to suggest some more work for him?” “Yes, I was; but perhaps it is work in which you could help him,” said Herr Sivertsen, and he explained to her his project. “If only I could make time for it,” she cried. “But you see we all have very busy lives. I have to see to the house almost entirely, and there is always either mending or making in hand. And Swanhild and I are out every afternoon at Madame Lechertier’s academy. By the by, that is why we have on these peasant costumes, which must have surprised you.” “It is a pretty dress, and takes me back to my old days at home,” said Herr Sivertsen. “As to the work, do what you can of it, there is no immediate hurry. Here comes your brother!” and the old man at once button-holed Frithiof, while Roy, who had returned with him, was ready enough to talk with Sigrid as she stood by the fire making toast, little Swanhild in the mean time setting the table for afternoon tea, lighting the lamp, and drawing the curtains. Herr Sivertsen found himself drinking tea before he knew what he was about, and the novelty of the little household quite shook him out of his gruff surliness. Strange bygone memories came floating back to him as he listened to the two girls’ merry talk, watched them as suddenly they broke into an impromptu dance, and begged them to sing to him the old tunes which for so many years he had not heard. “I am sorry to say,” observed Sigrid, laughing, “that our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Hallifield, tells me the general belief in the house is that we belong to the Christy Minstrels. English people don’t seem to understand that one can dance and sing at home for pure pleasure and not professionally.” After that the old author often paid them a visit, and they learned to like him very much and to enjoy his tirades against the degenerate modern race. And thus with hard work, enlivened now and then by a visit to Rowan Tree House, or by a call from the Bonifaces, the winter slipped by, and the trees grew green once more, and they were obliged to own that even this smoky London had a beauty all its own.