Cecil laughed merrily. It was by no means the first time that he had told her of his hopeless lack of all literary and scientific tastes, and she admired him all the more for it, because he kept so perseveringly to the work, and disregarded his personal tastes so manfully. They had, moreover, many points in common, for there was a vein of poetry in his nature as well as in hers; like most Norwegians, he was musical, and his love of sport and of outdoor life had not robbed him of the gentler tastes—love of scenery and love of home. “See!” she exclaimed, “there is the first narcissus. How early it is! I must take it to mother, for she is so fond of them.” He stooped to gather the flower for her, and as she took it from him, he just glanced at her for a moment; she was looking very pretty that evening, her gray eyes were unusually bright, there was a soft glow of color in her fair face, an air of glad contentment seemed to hover about her. He little guessed that it was happiness in his success which was the cause of all this. Even as he watched her, however, her color faded, her lips began to quiver, she seemed to be on the point of fainting. “Is anything the matter?” he asked, alarmed by the sudden change in her face. “Are you ill, Cecil?” She did not reply, but let him help her to the nearest garden seat. “It is the scent of the narcissus; it is too strong for you,” he suggested. “No,” she gasped. “But a most awful feeling came over me. Something is going to happen, I am sure of it.” He looked perplexed. She dropped the narcissus from her hand, and he picked it up and put it on the farther side of the bench, still clinging to his own theory that it was the cause of her faintness. Her face, which a moment before had been so bright, was now white as the flower itself, and the look of suffering in it touched him. His heart began to beat a little uneasily when he saw a servant approaching them from the house. “She is right,” he thought to himself. “What on earth can it be?” “Master asked me to give you this, Miss Cecil,” said the maid, handing her a little penciled note. She sat up hastily, making a desperate effort to look as if nothing were wrong with her. The servant went back to the house, and Frithiof waited anxiously to hear what the note was about. She read it through and then handed it to him. It ran as follows: “Mr. Grantley has come, and wishes to see the children. He will not take them away for a few days, but you had better bring them down to see him.” “He is out of prison!” exclaimed Frithiof. “But surely his time is not up yet. I thought he had five years?” “The five years would be over next October. I knew it would come some day, but I never thought of it so soon, and to take them away in a few days!” “I remember now,” said Frithiof; “there is a rule that by good behavior in prison they can slightly shorten their time. I am so sorry for you; it will be a fearful wrench to you to part with Lance and Gwen.”