“Did he call on me again there?” said Frithiof. “I remember now he promised that he would come, I ought to have thought of it; but somehow all was confusion that night, and afterward I was too ill.” “It must have been terrible for you all alone among strangers in a foreign country,” said Cecil, the ready tears starting to her eyes. “Come in and see my mother; she has often heard how good you all were to us in Norway.” She opened a door on the left of the entrance hall and took him into one of the prettiest rooms he had ever seen: the soft crimson carpet, the inlaid rosewood furniture, the bookshelves with their rows of well-bound books, all seemed to belong to each other, and a delightfully home-like feeling came over him as he sat by the fire, answering Mrs. Boniface’s friendly inquiries; he could almost have fancied himself once more in his father’s study at Bergen—the room where so many of their long winter evenings had been passed. They sat there talking for a good half-hour before Roy and his father returned, but to Frithiof the time seemed short enough. He scarcely knew what it was that had such a charm for him; their talk was not particularly brilliant, and yet it somehow interested him. Mrs. Boniface was one of those very natural, homely people whose commonplace remarks have a sort of flavor of their own, and Cecil had something of the same gift. She never tried to make an impression, but went on her way so quietly, that it was often not until she was gone that people realized what she had been to them. Perhaps what really chased away Frithiof’s gloom, and banished the look of the Ishmaelite from his face, was the perception that these people really cared for him, that their kindness was not labored formality but a genuine thing. Tossed about for so long among hard-headed money-makers, forced every day to confront glaring contrasts of poverty and wealth, familiarized with the sight of every kind of evil, it was this sort of thing that he needed. And surely it is strange that in these days when people are willing to devote so much time and trouble to good works, so few are willing to make their own homes the havens of refuge they might be. A home is apt to become either a mere place of general entertainment, or else a selfishly guarded spot where we may take our ease without a thought of those who are alone in the world. Many will ask a man in Frithiof’s position to an at-home or a dance, but very few care to take such a one into their real home and make him one of themselves. They will talk sadly about the temptations of town life, but they will not in this matter stir an inch to counteract them.