But so it was; and while the daily life went on in its usual grooves—Frithiof at the shop, Sigrid busy with the household work, playing at the academy, and driving away thoughts of Roy with the cares of other people—little Swanhild in desperation took the step which meant so much more than she understood. It was Sunday afternoon. Frithiof had gone for a walk with Roy, and Sigrid had been carried off by Madame Lechertier for a drive. Swanhild was alone, and likely to be alone for some time to come. “It is now or never,” she thought to herself; and opening her desk, she drew from it a letter which she had written the day before, and read it through very carefully. It ran as follows: “DEAR SIR.—It says in your prayer-book that if any can not quiet their conscience, but require comfort and counsel, they may come to any discreet and learned minister and open their grief, thus avoiding all scruple and doubtfulness. I am a Norwegian; not a member of your church, but I have often heard you preach; and will you please let me speak to you, for I am in a great trouble? “I am, sir, yours very truly, “SWANHILD FALCK.” Feeling tolerably satisfied with this production, she inclosed it in an envelope, directed it to “The Rev. Charles Osmond, Guilford Square,” put on her little black fur hat and her thick jacket and fur cape, and hurried downstairs, leaving the key with the door-keeper, and making all speed in the direction of Bloomsbury. Swanhild, though in some ways childish, as is usually the case with the youngest of the family, was in other respects a very capable little woman. She had been treated with respect and consideration, after the Norwegian custom; she had been consulted in the affairs of the little home commonwealth; and of course had been obliged to go to and from school alone every day, so she did not feel uncomfortable as she hastened along the quiet Sunday streets; indeed, her mind was so taken up with the thought of the coming interview that she scarcely noticed the passers-by, and only paused once, when a little doubtful whether she was taking the nearest way, to ask the advice of a policeman. At length she reached Guilford Square, and her heart began to beat fast and her color to rise. All was very quiet here; not a soul was stirring; a moldy-looking statue stood beneath the trees in the garden; hospitals and institutions seemed to abound; and Mr. Osmond’s house was one of the few private houses still left in what, eighty years ago, had been a fashionable quarter. Swanhild mounted the steps, and then, overcome with shyness, very nearly turned back and gave up her project; however, though shy she was plucky, and making a valiant effort, she rang the bell, and waited trembling, half with fear, half with excitement. The maid-servant who opened the door had such a pleasant face that she felt a little reassured.