Swanhild had just finished her letter when the door of the study opened, and looking up she saw Charles Osmond once more, and beside him a lady who seemed to her more lovely than Blanche; she was a good deal older than Lady Romiaux and less strikingly beautiful, but there was something in her creamy-white coloring and short auburn hair, something in the mingled sadness and sweetness of her face that took Swanhild’s heart by storm. “This is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Brian Osmond, and this is my grandson,” said Charles Osmond, allowing Rae’s tiny fingers to play with his long white beard. “Will you come upstairs and stay with us till Mr. Osmond comes back?” said Erica, shaking hands with her, and wondering not a little what connection there could be between this fair-haired, innocent little Norse girl and Lady Romiaux. And then seeing that Swanhild was shy she kept her hand in hers and led her up to the drawing-room, where, with the baby to play with, she was soon perfectly happy, and chattering away fast enough to the great amusement of old Mrs. Osmond, who heard the whole story of the model lodgings, of the dancing classes, and of the old home in Norway. In the mean while Charles Osmond had reached his friend’s chambers, and to his great satisfaction found him in. “As far as I know,” replied Mr. Ferguson, “Lady Romiaux is still in lodgings in George Street.” He drew a card from his pocket-book and handed it to the clergyman. “That’s the number; and to my certain knowledge she was there yesterday. Her father wont have anything to do with her.” “Poor child!” said Charles Osmond, half to himself, “I wonder what will become of her?” Mr. Ferguson shrugged his shoulders. “Well, she’s brought it all on herself,” he said. “There is no doubt whatever that she is guilty, and how the jury disagreed I’m sure I don’t know.” Charles Osmond did not stay to discuss the matter, but made the best of his way to George Street, and sent in his card with a request that Lady Romiaux would, if possible, see him on a matter of business. In a minute or two he was ushered into a drawing-room, which had the comfortless air of most lodging-house rooms; standing on the hearthrug was a young, delicate-looking girl; for a moment he did not recognize her as the Lady Romiaux whose portraits were so well known, for trouble had sadly spoiled her beauty, and her eyelids were red and swollen, either with want of sleep or with many tears. She bowed, then meeting his kindly eyes, the first eyes she had seen for so long which did not stare at her in hateful curiosity, or glance at her with shrinking disapproval, she came quickly forward and put her hand in his. “For what reason can you have come?” she exclaimed; “you of all men.” He was struck with the wild look in her great dark eyes, and intuitively knew that other work than the delivery of little Swanhild’s letter awaited him here. “Why do you say, ‘Of all men’ in that tone?” he asked.