He looked at her quickly, struck by something unusual in her tone, and not at all understanding the little flush of hot color that had risen in her face. “Oh,” he said teasingly, “you think that every one has your ideal of happiness, and cannot manage to exist without the equivalent of Roy and baby, to say nothing of the house and garden.” “I don’t think anything of the sort,” she protested, relieved by his failure to appropriate to himself her rather unguarded speech. “Norway will be the best thing in the world for her,” he said. “It is the true panacea for all evils. Can you believe that in less than a week we shall actually be at Bergen once more!” And Sigrid, looking at his eager, blue eyes, and remembering his brave struggles and long exile, could not find it in her heart to be angry with him any more. Besides, he had been very thoughtful for Cecil just lately, and seemed to have set his heart on making the projected tour in Norway as nearly perfect as might be. To Sigrid there was a serious drawback—she was obliged to leave her baby behind in England; however, after the first wrench of parting, she managed to enjoy herself very well, and Mrs. Boniface, who was to spend the six weeks of their absence in Devonshire with some of her cousins, promised to take every possible care of her little grandson, to telegraph now and then, and to write at every opportunity. It had been impossible for Mr. Boniface to leave London, but the two younger members of the firm, with Sigrid, Cecil, and little Swanhild, made a very merry party, and Frithiof, at length free from the load of his father’s debts, seemed suddenly to grow ten years younger. Indeed, Sigrid, who for so long had seen her hopes for Cecil defeated by the cares and toils brought by these same debts, began to fear that now his extreme happiness in his freedom would quite suffice to him, and that he would desire nothing further.