“I shall have a postscript to add to my letter,” said Cecil presently, looking up at him with the radiant smile which he so loved to see on her lips. “What a very feminine one it will be! We say, you know, in England, that a woman’s postscript is the most important part of her letter.” “Will your father and mother ever spare you to me?” said Frithiof. “They will certainly welcome you as their son,” she replied. “And Mr. and Mrs. Horner?” suggested Frithiof mischievously. But at the thought of the consternation of her worthy cousins Cecil could do nothing but laugh. “Never mind,” she said, “they have always disapproved of me as much as they have of you; they will perhaps say that it is, after all, a highly suitable arrangement!” “I wonder whether Swanhild will say the same?” said Frithiof with a smile; “here she comes, hurrying home alone. Will you wait by the river and let me just tell her my good news?” He walked along the road to meet his sister, who, spite of added years and inches, still retained much of her childlikeness. “Why are you all alone?” he said. “Oh, there is no fun,” said Swanhild. “When Roy and Sigrid are out on a holiday they are just like lovers, so I came back to you.” “What will you say when I tell you that I am betrothed,” he said teasingly. She looked up in his face with some alarm. “You are only making fun of me,” she protested. “On the contrary, I am stating the most serious of facts. Come, I want your congratulations.” “But who are you betrothed to?” asked Swanhild, bewildered. “Can it be to Madale? And, oh dear, what a horrid time to choose for it—you will be just no good at all. I really do think you might have waited till the end of the tour.” “It might possibly have been managed if you had spoken sooner,” said Frithiof, with mock gravity, “but you come too late—the deed is done.” “Well, I shall have Cecil to talk to, so after all it doesn’t much matter,” said Swanhild graciously. “But, unfortunately, she also has become betrothed,” said Frithiof, watching the bewildered little face with keen pleasure, and seeing the light of perception suddenly dawn on it. Swanhild caught his hand in hers. “You don’t mean—” she began. “Oh yes,” cried Frithiof, “but I do mean it very much indeed. Come,” and he hurried her down the grassy slope to the river. “I shall tell Cecil every word you have been saying.” Then, as she rose to meet them, he said with a laugh, “This selfish child thinks we might have put it off till the end of the tour for her special benefit.” “No, no,” cried Swanhild, flying toward Cecil with outstretched arms. “I never knew it was to you he was betrothed—and you could never be that horrid, moony kind who are always sitting alone together in corners.”