Now Swanhild was a very imaginative child, and she was just at the age when girls form extravagant adorations for women. At Balholm she had worshiped Blanche; even when told afterward how badly Frithiof had been treated her love had not faltered, she had invented every possible excuse for her idol, and though never able to speak of her, still cherished a little hoard of souvenirs of Balholm. There is something laughable and yet touching in these girlish adorations, and as safeguards against premature thoughts of real love they are certainly worthy of all encouragement. Men were at present nothing at all to her but a set of big brothers, who did well enough as playfellows. All the romance of her nature was spent on an ideal Blanche—how unlike the real Lady Romiaux innocent Swanhild never guessed. While the world talked hard things, this little Norwegian girl was secretly kissing a fir-cone, which Blanche had once picked up on their way to the priest’s _saeter_, or furtively unwrapping a withered rose which had been fastened in Blanche’s hair at the merry dance on that Saturday night. Her heart beat so fast that she felt almost choked when Sigrid suddenly mentioned Lady Romiaux’s name. “How was she looking?” she asked, turning away her blushing face with the most comical parody of a woman’s innate tendency to hide her love. “Oh, she was looking just as usual, as pretty, and as siren-like as ever, wretched woman!” Then, remembering that Swanhild was too young to hear all the truth, she suddenly drew up. “But there, don’t speak of her any more. I never wish to hear her name again.” Poor Swanhild sighed; she thought Sigrid very hard and unforgiving, and this made her cling all the more to her beloved ideal; it was true she had been faithless to Frithiof, but no doubt she was very sorry by this time, and as the child knelt down to say her morning prayers she paused long over the petition for “Blanche,” which for all this time had never been omitted once. Frithiof came to breakfast only a few minutes before the time when he had to start for business. His eyes looked very heavy, and his face had the pale, set look which Sigrid had learnt to interpret only too well. She knew that while they had been sleeping he had been awake, struggling with those old memories which at times would return to him; he had conquered, but the conquest had left him weary, and exhausted and depressed. “If only she had been true to him!” thought Swanhild. “Poor Blanche! if he looked at all like this last night how terribly sorry she must have felt.”