“Will not Lord Romiaux remember her youth?” he said. “Do you not think there is at least a hope that he will forgive her?” Then Charles Osmond felt a strange gladness at his heart, and over his face there came a look of indescribable content, for the words revealed to him the noble nature of the man before him; he knew that not one in a thousand would have so spoken under the circumstances. The interest he had felt in this man, whose story had accidentally become known to him, changed to actual love. “I am not without a strong hope that those two may be atoned,” he replied. “But as yet I do not know enough of Lord Romiaux to feel sure. It would probably involve the sacrifice of his public life. I do not know whether his love is equal to such a sacrifice, or whether he has strength and courage enough to offend the world, or whether he in the least understands the law of forgiveness.” “If you could only get to know him,” said Frithiof. “I quite hope to do so, and that before long,” said Charles Osmond. “I think I can get at him through a mutual friend—the member for Greyshot—but we must not be in too great a hurry. Depend upon it, the right time will come if we are only ready and waiting. Do you know the old Scotch proverb, ‘Where twa are seeking they’re sure to find?’ There is a deep truth beneath those words, a whole parable, it seems to me.” “I must not keep you,” said Frithiof, rising. “But I couldn’t rest till I had thanked you for your help, and let you know what had happened.” “The affair has made us something more than mere acquaintances,” said Charles Osmond. “I hope we may learn to know each other well in the future. A happy Christmas to you.” He had opened the study door, they were in the passage outside, and he grasped the Norwegian’s hand. At that moment it happened that Blanche passed from the dining-room to the staircase; she just glanced round to see who Charles Osmond was addressing so heartily, and, perceiving Frithiof, colored painfully and caught at the banisters for support. Having realized what was the Norseman’s character, Charles Osmond did not regret the meeting; he stood by in silence, glancing first at his companion’s startled face, then at Blanche’s attitude of downcast confusion. As for Frithiof, in that moment he realized that his early passion was indeed dead. Its fierce fire had utterly burned out; the weary pain was over, the terrible battle which he had fought so long was at an end, all that was now left was a chivalrous regard for the woman who had made him suffer so fearfully, a selfless desire for her future safety. He strode toward her with outstretched hand. It was the first time he had actually touched her since they had parted long ago on the steamer at Balholm, but he did not think of that; the past which had lingered with him so long and with such cruel clearness seemed now to have withered like the raiment of a Viking whose buried ship is suddenly exposed to the air.