“I wish Roy had been at home,” she said to her daughter as, on the Wednesday afternoon, they sat together in the verandah. Cecil looked up for a moment from the little frock which she was making for Gwen. “If he had been at home, I can’t help thinking that this never would have happened,” she said. “And I have a sort of hope that he will find out some explanation of it all.” “My dear, what explanation can there be but the one that satisfies your father?” said Mrs. Boniface. “Frithiof must have taken it in a fit of momentary aberration. But the whole affair shows that he is not so strong yet as we fancied, and I fear is a sign that all his life he will feel the effects of his illness. It is that which makes me so sorry for them all.” “I do not believe that he took it,” said Cecil. “Nothing will ever make me believe that.” She stitched away fast at the little frock, in a sudden panic, lest the tears which burned in her eyes should attract her mother’s notice. Great regret and sympathy she might allow herself to show, for Frithiof was a friend and a favorite of every one in the house; but of the grief that filled her heart she must allow no trace to be seen, for it would make her mother miserable to guess at the extent of her unhappiness. “Did you see him last night at the concert?” asked Mrs. Boniface. “Yes,” said Cecil, choking back her tears; “just when he arranged the platform. He was looking very ill and worn.” “That is what I am so afraid of. He will go worrying over this affair, and it is the very worst thing in the world for him. I wish your father were better, and I would go and have a talk with Sigrid; but I hardly like to leave the house. How would it be, dearie, if you went up and saw them?” “I should like to go,” said Cecil quickly. “But it is no use being there before seven, for Madame Lechertier has her classes so much later in this hot weather.” “Well, go up at seven, then, and have a good talk with her; make her understand that we none of us think a bit the worse of him for it, and that we are vexed with Cousin James for having been so disagreeable and harsh. You might, if you like, go to meet Roy; he comes back at half-past eight, and he will bring you home again.” Cecil cheered up a good deal at this idea; she took Lance round the garden with her, that he might help her to gather flowers for Sigrid, and even smiled a little when of his own accord the little fellow brought her a beautiful passion-flower which he had gathered from the house wall. “This one’s for my dear Herr Frithiof!” he exclaimed, panting a little with the exertions he had made to reach it. “It’s all for his own self, and I picked it for him, ’cause it’s his very favorite.”