Now Cecil was of a wholly different type. Already love had taken possession of her, it had stolen into her heart almost unconsciously and had brought grave shadows into her quiet life, shadows cast by the sorrow of another. Her notion of love was simply freedom to love and serve; to give her this freedom there must of course be true love on the other side, but of its kind or of its degree she would never trouble herself to think. For already her love was so pure and deep that it rendered her almost selfless. Sigrid’s speech troubled her for a minute or two; if one girl could speak so, why not all girls? Was she perhaps less truly womanly that she thought less of what was owing to herself?
“It may be so,” she admitted, yet with a latent consciousness that so infinite a thing as love could not be bound by any hard and fast rules. “But I cannot help it. Whether it is womanly or not, I would die to give him the least real comfort.”
“Tell Harris to stop, Cecil,” said Mrs. Boniface. “We will get some grapes for Mr. Falck.”
And glad to escape from the carriage for a minute, and glad, too, to be of use even in such a far-off way, Cecil went into the fruiterer’s, returning before long with a beautiful basket of grapes and flowers.
CHAPTER XIX.
“See what I have brought you,” said Sigrid, re-entering the sick-room a little later on.
Frithiof took the basket and looked, with a pleasure which a few weeks ago would have been impossible to him, at the lovely flowers and fruit.
“You have come just at the right time, for he will insist on talking of all the deepest things in heaven and earth,” said Roy, “and this makes a good diversion.”
“They are from Mrs. Boniface. Is it not kind of her! And do you know, Frithiof, she and Doctor Morris have been making quite a deep plot; they want to transplant us bodily to Rowan Tree House, and Doctor Morris thinks the move could do you no harm now that you are getting better.”
His face lighted up with something of its former expression.