“Yes,” replied the Norwegian candidly, “but it is not a disabling one. I shall get through all right.” “What plans have you made for your Whitsuntide holiday?” “I don’t think we had made any plan at all.” “Then I want you all to come away with us for a few days,” said the shop-owner. “You look to me as if you wanted rest. Come to us for a week; I will arrange for your absence.” “You are very good,” said Frithiof warmly. “But indeed I would rather only take the general holiday of Saturday to Tuesday. I am not in the least ill, and would rather not take extra days when there is no need.” “Independent as ever,” said Mr. Boniface, with a smile. “Well, it must be as you like. We will see what the three days will do for you.” Where and how this holiday was to be spent only Mr. and Mrs. Boniface knew, and Cecil and Roy were as much astonished as any one when, at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, a coach and four stopped at the gate of Rowan Tree House. “What! are we to drive there?” asked Cecil. “Oh, father, how delightful! Will it be very far?” “Yes, a long drive; so keep out plenty of wraps, in case the evening is chilly. We can tuck away the children inside if they get tired. Now, are we all ready? Then we will drive to the model lodgings.” So off they started, a very merry party, but still merrier when the three Norwegians had joined them, the girls, as usual, dressed in black, for economy’s sake, but wearing very dainty little white sailor hats, which Sigrid had sat up on the previous night to trim. She enjoyed her new hat amazingly; she enjoyed locking up the lodgings and handing the key to the caretaker; she enjoyed the delicious prospect of three days’ immunity from cooking, and cleaning, and anxious planning of food and money; and she enjoyed Roy’s presence, with the frank, free happiness of a girl who is as yet quite heart-whole. “I feel like the ‘linen-draper bold,’ in the ballad,” said Mr. Boniface, with his hearty laugh. “But I have taken precautions, you see, against a similar catastrophe. We have had more than the ‘twice ten tedious years’ together, have we not, Loveday?” “Yes,” she said, with her sweet, expressive smile, “we are just beginning the twenty-seventh, Robin, and have had many holidays, unlike Mr. and Mrs. Gilpin.” They were still like lovers, this husband and wife of twenty-six years’ standing; and it was with a sort of consciousness that they would be happier if left to themselves, that Frithiof, who sat between Mrs. Boniface and Cecil, turned toward the latter, and began to talk to her.