Although she had climbed the stairs so slowly, poor Swanhild was still out of breath when she reached the door leading into the little parlor; she paused a moment to recover herself, and, hearing voices within, became a degree more miserable, for she had counted upon finding Frithiof alone. Clearly Sigrid must also have returned, and, indeed, things were even worse than that, for as she opened the door and emerged round the Japanese screen she saw Roy standing by the fire; for this she had been utterly unprepared, and, indeed, it was very seldom that he came now to the model lodgings.
“At last!” exclaimed Frithiof, “why, Swanhild, where on earth have you been to? We were just thinking of having you cried.”
“We were preparing an advertisement to appear in all the papers to-morrow morning,” said Roy, laughing, “and were just trying to agree as to the description; you’ll hardly believe me, but your guardian hadn’t the least notion what color your eyes are.”
Frithiof drew her toward him, smiling.
“Let me see now in case she is ever lost again,” he said, but noticing a suspicious moisture in the blue eyes he no longer teased her, but made her sit down on his knee and drew off her gloves.
“What is the matter, dear?” he said, “you look cold and tired; where have you been to?”
“I have been to see Mr. Osmond,” said Swanhild, “you know we often go to his church, Sigrid and I, and there was something I wanted to ask him about. Last summer I made a promise which I think was wrong, and I wanted to know whether I might break it.”
“What did he say?” asked Frithiof, while Sigrid and Roy listened in silent astonishment.
“He said that a wrong promise ought to be broken, and he managed to get me leave to speak from the person to whom I made the promise. And now I am going to tell you about it.”
Frithiof could feel how the poor little thing was trembling.