“Is Mr. Osmond at home?” she asked, in her very best English accent. “Yes, miss,” said the servant. “Then will you please give him this,” said Swanhild, handing in the neatly written letter. “And I will wait for an answer.” She was shown into a dining-room, and after a few minutes the servant reappeared. “Mr. Osmond will see you in the study, miss,” she said. And Swanhild, summoning up all her courage, followed her guide, her blue eyes very wide open, her cheeks very rosy, her whole expression so deprecating, so pathetic, that the veriest ogre could not have found it in his heart to be severe with her. She glanced up quickly, caught a glimpse of a comfortable room, a blazing fire, and a tall, white-haired, white-bearded man who stood on the hearth rug. A look of astonishment and amusement just flitted over his face, then he came forward to meet her, and took her hand in his so kindly that Swanhild forgot all her fears, and at once felt at home with him. “I am so glad to see you,” he said, making her sit down in a big chair by the fire. “I have read your note, and shall be very glad if I can help you in any way. But wait a minute. Had you not better take off that fur cape, or you will catch cold when you go out again?” Swanhild obediently took it off. “I didn’t know,” she said, “whether you heard confessions or not, but I want to make one if you do.” He smiled a little, but quite kindly. “Well, in the ordinary sense I do not hear confessions,” he said. “That is to say, I think the habit of coming regularly to confession is a bad habit, weakening to the conscience and character of the one who confesses, and liable to abuse on the part of the one who hears the confession. But the words you quoted in your letter are words with which I quite agree, and if you have anything weighing on your mind and think that I can help you, I am quite ready to listen.” Swanhild seemed a little puzzled by the very home-like and ordinary appearance of the study. She looked round uneasily. “Well?” said Charles Osmond, seeing her bewildered look. “I was wondering if people kneel down when they come to confession,” said Swanhild, with a simple directness which charmed him. “Kneel down to talk to me!” he said, with a smile in his eyes. “Why, no, my child; why should you do that? Sit there by the fire and get warm, and try to make me understand clearly what is your difficulty.” “It is just this,” said Swanhild, now entirely at her ease. “I want to know if it is ever right to break a promise.”