By the middle of August, Lance and Gwen had recovered, and were taken down to the seaside, while Rowan Tree House was delivered into the hands of the painters and whitewashers to be thoroughly disinfected. But in spite of lovely weather that summer’s holiday proved a very dreary one. Roy was in the depths of depression, and it seemed to Cecil that a great shadow had fallen upon everything. “Robin,” said Mrs. Boniface, “I want you to take that child to Switzerland for a month; this place is doing her no good at all. She wants change and mountain air.” So the father and mother plotted and planned, and in September Cecil, much against her will, was packed off to Switzerland to see snow-mountains, and waterfalls, when all the time she would far rather been seeing the prosaic heights of the model lodging-houses, and the dull London streets. Still, being a sensible girl, she did her best with what was put before her, and, though her mind was a good deal with Sigrid and Frithiof in their trouble and anxiety, yet physically she gained great good from the tour, and came back with a color in her cheeks which satisfied her mother. “By-the-by, dearie,” remarked Mrs. Boniface, the day after her return, “your father thought you would like to hear the _Elijah_ to-night at the Albert Hall, and he has left you two tickets.” “Why, Albani is singing, is she not?” cried Cecil. “Oh yes; I should like to go of all things!” “Then I tell you what we will do; we will send a card and ask Mrs. Horner to go with you, for it’s the Church meeting to-night, and father and I do not want to miss it.” Cecil could make no objection to this, though her pleasure was rather damped by the prospect of having Mrs. Horner as her companion. There was little love lost between them, for the innate refinement of the one jarred upon the innate vulgarity of the other, and _vice versâ_. It was a little after seven o’clock when Cecil drove to the Horners’ house and was ushered into the very gorgeous drawing-room. It was empty, and by a sort of instinct which she could never resist, she crossed over to the fireplace and gazed up at the clock, which ever since her childhood had by its ugliness attracted her much as a moth is attracted to a candle. It was a huge clock with a little white face and a great golden rock, upon which golden pigs browsed with a golden swineherd in attendance. “My dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Horner, entering with a perturbed face, “did not my letter reach you in time? I made sure it would. The fact is, I am not feeling quite up to going out to-night. Could you find any one else, do you think, who would go with you?” Cecil thought for a moment. “Sigrid would have liked it, but I know she is too busy just now,” she remarked.