From that time forward a great change came over his attitude toward her. Hitherto his friendship with her had, it must be owned, been chiefly selfish. He had always heartily liked her, had enjoyed being at Rowan Tree House, had fallen into the habit of discussing many things with her and valuing her opinion, but it was always of himself he had thought—of what she could do for him, of what he could learn from her, of how much enjoyment he could get from her music and her frank friendliness, and her easy way of talking. It was not that he was more selfish than most men, but that they had learned really to know each other at a time when his heart was so paralyzed by Blanche’s faithlessness, so crushed by the long series of misfortunes, that giving had been out of the question for him; he could merely take and make the most of whatever she could give him. But now all this was altered. The old wounds, though to the end of his life they must leave a scar, were really healed. He had lived through a great deal, and had lived in a way that had developed the best points in his character. He had now a growingly keen appreciation for all that was really beautiful—for purity, and strength, and tenderness, and for that quality which it is the fashion to call Altruism, but which he, with his hatred of affectation in words, called goodness. As he thought of Cecil during those days he began to see more and more clearly the full force of her character. Hitherto he had quietly taken her for granted; there was nothing very striking about her, nothing in the least obtrusive. Perhaps if it had not been for that strange little scene in the garden he would never have taken the trouble to think of her actual character. Through the week that followed he watched her with keen interest and sympathy. That she should be in trouble—at any rate, in trouble that was patent to all the world—was something entirely new. Their positions seemed to be reversed; and he found himself spontaneously doing everything he could think of to please and help her. Her trouble seemed to draw them together; and to his mind there was something very beautiful in her passionate devotion to the children—for it was a devotion that never in the least bordered on sentimentality. She went through everything very naturally, having a good cry now and then, but taking care not to make the children unhappy at the prospect of the parting, and arranging everything that they could possibly want, not only on the voyage, but for some time to come in their new home. “She is so plucky!” thought Frithiof to himself, with a thrill of admiration. For he was not at all the sort of man to admire helplessness, or languor, or cowardice; they seemed to him as unlovely in a woman as in a man. At last the actual parting came. Cecil would have liked to go down to the steamer and see the children start, but on thinking it over she decided that it would be better not.