“They will feel saying good-by,” she said, “and it had better be here. Then they will have the long drive with you to the docks, and by that time they will be all right again, and will be able to enjoy the steamer and all the novelty.” Mr. Boniface was obliged to own that there was sound common-sense in this plan; so in their own nursery, where for nearly five years she had taken such care of them, Cecil dressed the two little ones for the last time, brushed out Gwen’s bright curls, coaxed Lance into his reefer, and then, no longer able to keep back her tears, clung to them in the last terrible parting. “Oh, Cecil, dear, darling Cecil,” sobbed Lance, “I don’t want to go away; I don’t care for the steamer one bit.” She was on the hearthrug, with both children nestled close to her, the thought of the unknown world that they were going out into, and the difficult future awaiting them, came sweeping over her; just as they were then, innocent, and unconscious, and happy, she could never see them again. “Be good, Lance,” she said, through her tears. “Promise me always to try to be good.” “I promise,” said the little fellow, hugging her with all his might. “And we shall come back as soon as ever we’re grown up—we shall both come back.” “Yes, yes,” said Cecil, “you must come back.” But in her heart she knew that however pleasant the meeting in future years might be, it could not be like the present; as children, and as her own special charge, she was parting with them forever. The carriage drove up to the door; there came sounds of hurrying feet and fetching and carrying of luggage; Cecil took them downstairs, and then, with a last long embrace from Lance, and kisses interspersed with sobs from Gwen, she gave them up to her father, and turned to take leave of their nurse. “I will take great care of them, miss,” said the maid, herself crying, “and you shall hear from me regularly.” In another minute the carriage had driven away, and Cecil was left to make the best she might of what she could not but feel, at first, a desolate life. CHAPTER XXXIX. Hardly had the bustle of departure quieted down at Rowan Tree House when a fresh anxiety arose. Herr Sivertsen, who had for some time been out of health, was seized with a fatal illness, and for three days and nights Frithiof was unable to leave him; on the third night the old Norseman passed quietly away, conscious to the last minute, and with his latest breath inveighing against the degeneracy of the age. “Frithiof is a rare exception,” he said, turning his dim eyes toward Sigrid, who stood by the bedside. “And to him I leave all that I have. As for the general run of young men nowadays—I wash my hands of them—a worthless set—a degenerate—” His voice died away, he sighed deeply, caught Frithiof’s hand in his, and fell back on the pillow lifeless.