Mme. Jenssen turned out to be just as kind as her eyes had seemed. She let Christine cry for a few moments, then handed over a very large handkerchief, plain but of very soft linen. Christine didn't use it, of course, having one of her own, but she smiled her thanks as soon as she had composed herself.

"Are they happy tears or sad?" the woman asked in lightly accented French.

The accent was telling, so Christine thought for a moment to make sure that she had the words right.

"A little of both."

The old lady started, and her smile was one of pure delight.

"Why, you speak Swedish!"

Christine nodded.

"I'm out of practice, but I'm going home after many years."

She beckoned Christine over.

"Well, you're welcome to practice on me, my dear. It does my heart good to hear my own language again."

M. Jenssen had been in business in Paris for much of their marriage, and now that the deepest part of her mourning was over and her daughter happily married, Mme. Jenssen was going home to Göteborg to live with her sister.

"And what of you, Mademoiselle? What took you to France, and what brings you home?"

Christine smiled down at the portrait, and tears pricked her eyes again. It was like holding a small miracle in her hands.

"My father took me to France when I was a very little girl. He died many years ago, but I am just now able to go back."

She handed over the portrait. Mme. Jenssen stared at it for a minute, then gasped.

"Why, Mademoiselle! Are you Gustave Daae's daughter?"

Christine nodded, and the old lady took her hand.

"I should be surprised if the whole country didn't welcome you back! My dear, your father was so beloved. I know that in Paris he played the works of many fine composers, but in Sweden he was most loved for playing our folk songs. My Bengt and I went to hear him once—at the Kungliga Operan—and the entire audience wept."

Christine could not blink back her tears.

"Truly?"

Mme. Jenssen squeezed her hand.

"You didn't know?"

"No. I was so young when he died. I had no idea of whether he was famous—he was just Papa. And then I was too busy trying to make my way."

The old lady frowned. In such a kind face, it looked entirely out of place.

"Why, child, what do you mean make your way?"

Christine was amazed by the expressions that crossed the woman's face as she spoke of her years at the Opéra—minus, of course, the last one. Mme. Jenssen's face was all consternation.

"Do you mean to say that you were left penniless and had to dance for your living?" she asked after a minute.

Christine nodded.

"Well, I can hardly imagine it! All of your father's friends will be outraged."

Christine had to smile at that.

"If any of them are alive."

Mms. Jenssen patted her hand.

"Don't you worry a bit. We Swedes are long-lived. Do you know a soul in the country, my dear?"

"Only you."

It made the trip almost pleasant to have such a companion. Christine found that her language came back to her quickly, and Mme. Jenssen was very cheerful about providing words she had forgotten. The old lady was planning to spend some time in Stockholm before she went on to Göteborg, and she invited Christine to stay with her in the hotel and promised to introduce her to friends.

Mms. Jenssen was better than her word, and Christine could not have been more grateful for her new friend. Stockholm was a small but bustling city—the relative newness of the railway to the mainland was still exciting to the populace, and the city was bursting at the seams. Paris had been beautiful, but Christine found that her home city touched her heart in a way nothing in France ever had. Everything seemed more plain, but very clean and bright. Mme. Jenssen was able to advise her about furs to buy for winter and recommended her own bank. Christine soon found herself among a group of kind, busy old women, most of whom were widows and all of whom were by turns kind, eager to help, and each full of her own story about Papa.

To be so welcomed left Christine speechless. That her name would be well known was surprising enough, but, more than that, these women seemed so pleased to be welcoming her home for her own sake. She was greeted joyfully everywhere she went; she learned to play cards and even to not blush quite to much at the women's bawdy jokes. It was a bit like suddenly acquiring six grandmothers, and Christine was unutterably glad for it.

Mme. Gunnarson even had a room to let, for a very fair price. After she was settled and they had all seen Mme. Jenssen off after a night at the theatre, Christine went to have calling cards printed in preparation for presenting herself at the opera house. She posted letters as well, to Mme. Henri, Aunt Adelaide, and a much longer one to the Girys, along with a private note for Erik. Even the printer had heard her Papa play.