“How did the case end?” asked Mrs. Osmond.
“It ended in a disagreement of the jury,” replied her son, “Why, I can’t understand, for the evidence was utterly against her, according to Ferguson. I am just going round to see him now, and find out her address from him, and in the mean time there’s a dear little Norwegian girl in my study, who will wait till I bring back an answer. Would you like her to come up here?”
“Yes, yes,” said Erica, “by all means let us have her if she can talk English. Rae is waking up, you see, and we will come down and fetch her.”
Swanhild had just finished her letter when the door of the study opened, and looking up she saw Charles Osmond once more, and beside him a lady who seemed to her more lovely than Blanche; she was a good deal older than Lady Romiaux and less strikingly beautiful, but there was something in her creamy-white coloring and short auburn hair, something in the mingled sadness and sweetness of her face that took Swanhild’s heart by storm.
“This is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Brian Osmond, and this is my grandson,” said Charles Osmond, allowing Rae’s tiny fingers to play with his long white beard.
“Will you come upstairs and stay with us till Mr. Osmond comes back?” said Erica, shaking hands with her, and wondering not a little what connection there could be between this fair-haired, innocent little Norse girl and Lady Romiaux. And then seeing that Swanhild was shy she kept her hand in hers and led her up to the drawing-room, where, with the baby to play with, she was soon perfectly happy, and chattering away fast enough to the great amusement of old Mrs. Osmond, who heard the whole story of the model lodgings, of the dancing classes, and of the old home in Norway.
In the mean while Charles Osmond had reached his friend’s chambers, and to his great satisfaction found him in.
“As far as I know,” replied Mr. Ferguson, “Lady Romiaux is still in lodgings in George Street.” He drew a card from his pocket-book and handed it to the clergyman. “That’s the number; and to my certain knowledge she was there yesterday. Her father wont have anything to do with her.”
“Poor child!” said Charles Osmond, half to himself, “I wonder what will become of her?”
Mr. Ferguson shrugged his shoulders.