By this time they had reached the church; Lance, in the dress he had worn at Mrs. Horner’s fancy ball, stood ready to hold the bride’s train, and Gwen came running up to take her place in the little procession. A few spectators had dropped in, but the church was very quiet, and up in the chancel there were only Roy and his best man, Madame Lechertier, old Herr Sivertsen, and the father and mother of the bridegroom. Charles Osmond read the service, and his pretty daughter-in-law had begged leave to play the organ, for she had taken a fancy not only to little Swanhild, but to the whole family, when at her father-in-law’s request she had called upon them. After the wedding was over and the procession had once more passed down the aisle, she still went on playing, having a love of finishing in her nature. Charles Osmond came out of the vestry and stood beside her. “I am glad you played for them,” he said when the last chord had been struck. “It was not at all the sort of wedding to be without music.” “It was one of the nicest weddings I was ever at,” she said: “and as to your Norseman—he is all you said, and more. Do you know, there is a strong look about him which somehow made me think of my father. Oh! I do hope he will be able to pay off the debts.” “There is only one thing which could hinder him,” said Charles Osmond. “What is that?” asked Erica, looking up quickly. “Death,” he replied quietly. She made no answer, but the word did not jar upon her, for she was one of those who have learned that death is indeed the Gate of Life. Silently she pushed in the stops and locked the organ. CHAPTER XXXVIII. One spring evening, rather more than two years after the wedding, Sigrid was working away in the little back garden, to which, now that her household duties were light, she devoted a good deal of her time. It joined the garden of Rowan Tree House, and, for greater convenience, an opening had been made in the hedge, and a little green gate put up. Upon this gate leaned Cecil chatting comfortably, her tennis racquet under her arm, and with a pleasant consciousness that the work of the day was over, and that Roy and Frithiof might soon be expected for the nightly game which, during the season, they seldom cared to miss. “They are late this evening,” said Sigrid. “I wonder whether Herr Sivertsen has caught Frithiof. I hope not, for the tennis does him so much good.” “Is he working very hard?” asked Cecil. “He always works furiously; and just now I think he has got what some one called ‘the lust of finishing’ upon him; we see very little of him, for when he is not at business he is hard at work over Herr Sivertsen’s manuscript. But it really seems to agree with him; they say, you know, that work without worry harms no one.” “A very moral precept,” said a voice behind her, and glancing up she saw Frithiof himself crossing the little lawn.