Perhaps the waiting was not altogether pleasant to Mr. Morgan; he poked the fire and moved about restlessly. When, at last, light footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Blanche entered the room, he turned toward her with evident displeasure in his face. She wore a dress of reddish brown with a great deal of plush about it, and something in the way it was made suggested the greatest possible contrast to the little simple traveling-dress she had worn in Norway. Her eyes were bright and eager, her loveliness as great as ever. “You wanted me, papa?” she began; then, as she came forward and recognized Frithiof, she gave a little start of dismay and the color burned in her cheeks. “Yes, I wanted you,” said Mr. Morgan gravely. “Herr Falck’s son has just arrived.” She struggled hard to recover herself. “I am very glad to see you again,” she said, forcing up a little artificial laugh and holding out her hand. But Frithiof had seen her first expression of dismay and it had turned him into ice; he would not take her proffered hand, but only bowed formally. There was a painful silence. “This is not the first time, Blanche, that you have learned what comes of playing with edged tools,” said Mr. Morgan sternly. “I heard from others that you had flirted with Herr Falck’s son in Norway; I now learn that it was by your own suggestion that he came to England to ask my consent to an engagement, and that you allowed him to believe that you loved him. What have you to say for yourself?” While her father spoke, Blanche had stood by with bent head and downcast eyes; at this direct question she looked up for a moment. “I thought I did care for him just at the time,” she faltered. “It—it was a mistake.” “Why, then, did you not write and tell him so? It was the least you could have done,” said her father. “It was such a difficult letter to write,” she faltered. “I kept on putting it off, and hoping that he, too, would find out his mistake. And then sometimes I thought I could explain it all better to him if he came.” Frithiof made a step or two forward; his face was pale and rigid; the blue seemed to have died out of his eyes—they looked like steel. “I wait for your explanation,” he said, in a voice which, in spite of its firmness, betrayed intense agitation. Mr. Morgan without a word quitted the room, and the two were left alone. Again there was a long, expressive silence. Then, with a sob, Blanche turned away, sinking down on an ottoman and covering her face with her hands. Her tears instantly melted Frithiof; his indignation and wounded pride gave pace to love and tenderness; a sort of wild hope rose in his mind. “Blanche! Blanche!” he cried. “It isn’t true! It can’t be all over! Others have been urging you to make some grand marriage—to be the wife perhaps of some rich nobleman. But he can not love you as I love you. Oh! have you forgotten how you told me I might trust to you? There is not a moment since then that you have not been in my thoughts.”