Thelma

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BOOK I. THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN.

CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.

BOOK II. THE LAND OF MOCKERY

CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.

BOOK III. THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW

CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.


This etext was produced by Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

BOOK I. THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN.

CHAPTER I.


    "Dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each
     Outshone the last that lighted."—Swinburne.

Midnight,—without darkness, without stars! Midnight—and the unwearied sun stood, yet visible in the heavens, like a victorious king throned on a dais of royal purple bordered with gold. The sky above him,—his canopy,—gleamed with a cold yet lustrous blue, while across it slowly flitted a few wandering clouds of palest amber, deepening, as they sailed along, to a tawny orange. A broad stream of light falling, as it were, from the centre of the magnificent orb, shot lengthwise across the Altenfjord, turning its waters to a mass of quivering and shifting color that alternated from bronze to copper,—from copper to silver and azure. The surrounding hills glowed with a warm, deep violet tint, flecked here and there with touches of bright red, as though fairies were lighting tiny bonfires on their summits. Away in the distance a huge mass of rock stood out to view, its rugged lines transfigured into ethereal loveliness by a misty veil of tender rose pink,—a hue curiously suggestive of some other and smaller sun that might have just set. Absolute silence prevailed. Not even the cry of a sea-mew or kittiwake broke the almost deathlike stillness,—no breath of wind stirred a ripple on the glassy water. The whole scene might well have been the fantastic dream of some imaginative painter, whose ambition soared beyond the limits of human skill. Yet it was only one of those million wonderful effects of sky and sea which are common in Norway, especially on the Altenfjord, where, though beyond the Arctic circle, the climate in summer is that of another Italy, and the landscape a living poem fairer than the visions of Endymion.

There was one solitary watcher of the splendid spectacle. This was a man of refined features and aristocratic appearance, who, reclining on a large rug of skins which he had thrown down on the shore for that purpose, was gazing at the pageant of the midnight sun and all its stately surroundings, with an earnest and rapt expression in his clear hazel eyes.

"Glorious! beyond all expectation, glorious!" he murmured half aloud, as he consulted his watch and saw that the hands marked exactly twelve on the dial. "I believe I'm having the best of it, after all. Even if those fellows get the Eulalie into good position they will see nothing finer than this."

As he spoke he raised his field-glass and swept the horizon in search of a vessel, his own pleasure yacht,—which had taken three of his friends, at their special desire, to the opposite island of Seiland,—Seiland, rising in weird majesty three thousand feet above the sea, and boasting as its chief glory the great peak of Jedke, the most northern glacier in all the wild Norwegian land. There was no sign of a returning sail, and he resumed his study of the sumptuous sky, the colors of which were now deepening and burning with increasing lustre, while an array of clouds of the deepest purple hue, swept gorgeously together beneath the sun as though to form his footstool.

"One might imagine that the trump of the Resurrection had sounded, and that all this aerial pomp,—this strange silence,—was just the pause, the supreme moment before the angels descended," he mused, with a half-smile at his own fancy, for though something of a poet at heart, he was much more of a cynic. He was too deeply imbued with modern fashionable atheism to think seriously about angels or Resurrection trumps, but there was a certain love of mysticism and romance in his nature, which not even his Oxford experiences and the chilly dullness of English materialism had been able to eradicate. And there was something impressive in the sight of the majestic orb holding such imperial revel at midnight,—something almost unearthly in the light and life of the heavens, as compared with the referential and seemingly worshipping silence of the earth,—that, for a few moments, awed him into a sense of the spiritual and unseen. Mythical passages from the poets he loved came into his memory, and stray fragments of old songs and ballads he had known in his childhood returned to him with haunting persistence. It was, for him, one of those sudden halts in life which we all experience,—an instant,—when time and the world seem to stand still, as though to permit us easy breathing; a brief space,—in which we are allowed to stop and wonder awhile at the strange unaccountable force within us, that enables us to stand with such calm, smiling audacity, on our small pin's point of the present, between the wide dark gaps of past and future; a small hush,—in which the gigantic engines of the universe appear to revolve no more, and the immortal Soul of man itself is subjected and over-ruled by supreme and eternal Thought. Drifting away on those delicate imperceptible lines that lie between reality and dreamland, the watcher of the midnight sun gave himself up to the half painful, half delicious sense of being drawn in, absorbed, and lost in infinite imaginings, when the intense stillness around him was broken by the sound of a voice singing, a full, rich contralto, that rang through the air with the clearness of a golden bell. The sweet liquid notes were those of an old Norwegian mountain melody, one of those wildly pathetic FOLK-SONGS that seem to hold all the sorrow, wonder, wistfulness, and indescribable yearning of a heart too full for other speech than music. He started to his feet and looked around him for the singer. There was no one visible. The amber streaks in the sky were leaping into crimson flame; the Fjord glowed like the burning lake of Dante's vision; one solitary sea-gull winged its graceful, noiseless flight far above, its white pinions shimmering like jewels as it crossed the radiance of the heavens. Other sign of animal life there was none. Still the hidden voice rippled on in a stream of melody, and the listener stood amazed and enchanted at the roundness and distinctness of every note that fell from the lips of the unseen vocalist.

"A woman's voice," he thought; "but where is the woman?"

Puzzled, he looked to the right and left, then out to the shining Fjord, half expecting to see some fisher-maiden rowing along, and singing as she rowed, but there was no sign of any living creature. While he waited, the voice suddenly ceased, and the song was replaced by the sharp grating of a keel on the beach. Turning in the direction of this sound, he perceived a boat being pushed out by invisible hands towards the water's edge from a rocky cave, that jutted upon the Fjord, and, full of curiosity, he stepped towards the arched entrance, when,—all suddenly and unexpectedly,—a girl sprang out from the dark interior, and standing erect in her boat, faced the intruder. A girl of about nineteen, she seemed, taller than most women,—with a magnificent uncovered mass of hair, the color of the midnight sunshine, tumbled over her shoulders, and flashing against her flushed cheeks and dazzlingly fair skin. Her deep blue eyes had an astonished and certainly indignant expression in them, while he, utterly unprepared for such a vision of loveliness at such a time and in such a place, was for a moment taken aback and at a loss for words. Recovering his habitual self- possession quickly, however, he raised his hat, and, pointing to the boat, which was more than half way out of the cavern, said simply—

"May I assist you?"

She was silent, eyeing him with a keen glance which had something in it of disfavor and suspicion.

"I suppose she doesn't understand English," he thought, "and I can't speak a word of Norwegian. I must talk by signs."

And forthwith he went through a labored pantomime of gesture, sufficiently ludicrous in itself, yet at the same time expressive of his meaning. The girl broke into a laugh—a laugh of sweet amusement which brought a thousand new sparkles of light into her lovely eyes.

"That is very well done," she observed graciously, speaking English with something of a foreign accent. "Even the Lapps would understand you, and they are very stupid, poor things!"

Half vexed by her laughter, and feeling that he was somehow an object of ridicule to this tall, bright-haired maiden, he ceased his pantomimic gestures abruptly and stood looking at her with a slight flush of embarrassment on his features.

"I know your language," she resumed quietly, after a brief pause, in which she had apparently considered the stranger's appearance and general bearing. "It was rude of me not to have answered you at once. You can help me if you will. The keel has caught among the pebbles, but we can easily move it between us." And, jumping lightly out of her boat, she grasped its edge firmly with her strong white hands, exclaiming gaily, as she did so, "Push!"

Thus adjured, he lost no time in complying with her request, and, using his great strength and muscular force to good purpose, the light little craft was soon well in the water, swaying to and fro as though with impatience to be gone. The girl sprang to her seat, discarding his eagerly proffered assistance, and, taking both oars, laid them in their respective rowlocks, and seemed about to start, when she paused and asked abruptly—

"Are you a sailor?"

He smiled. "Not I! Do I remind you of one?"

"You are strong, and you manage a boat as though you were accustomed to the work. Also you look as if you had been at sea."

"Rightly guessed!" he replied, still smiling; "I certainly HAVE been at sea; I have been coasting all about your lovely land. My yacht went across to Seiland this afternoon."

She regarded him more intently, and observed, with the critical eye of a woman, the refined taste displayed in his dress, from the very cut of his loose travelling coat, to the luxurious rug of fine fox- shins, that lay so carelessly cast on the shore at a little distance from him. Then she gave a gesture of hauteur and half-contempt.

"You have a yacht? Oh! then you are a gentleman. You do nothing for your living?"

"Nothing, indeed!" and he shrugged his shoulders with a mingled air of weariness and self-pity, "except one thing—I live!"

"Is that hard work?" she inquired wonderingly.

"Very."

They were silent then, and the girl's face grew serious as she rested on her oars, and still surveyed him with a straight, candid gaze, that, though earnest and penetrating, had nothing of boldness in it. It was the look of one in whose past there were no secrets— the look of a child who is satisfied with the present and takes no thought for the future. Few women look so after they have entered their teens. Social artifice, affectation, and the insatiate vanity that modern life encourages in the feminine nature—all these things soon do away with the pellucid clearness and steadfastness of the eye—the beautiful, true, untamed expression, which, though so rare, is, when seen infinitely more bewitching than all the bright arrows of coquetry and sparkling invitation that flash from the glances of well-bred society dames, who have taken care to educate their eyes if not their hearts. This girl was evidently not trained properly; had she been so, she would have dropped a curtain over those wide, bright windows of her soul; she would have remembered that she was alone with a strange man at midnight—at midnight, though the sun shone; she would have simpered and feigned embarrassment, even if she could not feel it. As it happened, she did nothing of the kind, only her expression softened and became more wistful and earnest, and when she spoke again her voice was mellow with a suave gentleness, that had something in it of compassion.

"If you do not love life itself," she said, "you love the beautiful things of life, do you not? See yonder! There is what we call the meeting of night and morning. One is glad to be alive at such a moment. Look quickly! The light soon fades."

She pointed towards the east. Her companion gazed in that direction, and uttered an exclamation,—almost a shout,—of wonder and admiration. Within the space of the past few minutes the aspect of the heavens had completely changed. The burning scarlet and violet hues had all melted into a transparent yet brilliant shade of pale mauve,—as delicate as the inner tint of a lilac blossom,—and across this stretched two wing-shaped gossamer clouds of watery green, fringed with soft primrose. Between these cloud-wings, as opaline in lustre as those of a dragon-fly, the face of the sun shone like a shield of polished gold, while his rays, piercing spear-like through the varied tints of emerald, brought an unearthly radiance over the landscape—a lustre as though the moon were, in some strange way, battling with the sun for mastery over the visible universe though, looking southward, she could dimly be perceived, the ghost of herself—a poor, fainting, pallid goddess,—a perishing Diana.

Bringing his glance down from the skies, the young man turned it to the face of the maiden near him, and was startled at her marvellous beauty—beauty now heightened by the effect of the changeful colors that played around her. The very boat in which she sat glittered with a bronze-like, metallic brightness as it heaved gently to and fro on the silvery green water; the midnight sunshine bathed the falling glory of her long hair, till each thick tress, each clustering curl, appeared to emit an amber spark of light. The strange, weird effect of the sky seemed to have stolen into her eyes, making them shine with witch-like brilliancy,—the varied radiance flashing about her brought into strong relief the pureness of her profile, drawing as with a fine pencil the outlines of her noble forehead, sweet mouth, and rounded chin. It touched the scarlet of her bodice, and brightened the quaint old silver clasps she wore at her waist and throat, till she seemed no longer an earthly being, but more like some fair wondering sprite from the legendary Norse kingdom of Alfheim, the "abode of the Luminous Genii."

She was gazing upwards,—heavenwards,—and her expression was one of rapt and almost devotional intensity. Thus she remained for some moments, motionless as the picture of an expectant angel painted by Raffaele or Correggio; then reluctantly and with a deep sigh she turned her eyes towards earth again. In so doing she met the fixed and too visibly admiring gaze of her companion. She started, and a wave of vivid color flushed her cheeks. Quickly recovering her serenity, however, she saluted him slightly, and, moving her oars in unison, was on the point of departure.

Stirred by an impulse he could not resist, he laid one hand detainingly on the rim of her boat.

"Are you going now?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows in some little surprise and smiled.

"Going?" she repeated. "Why, yes. I shall be late in getting home as it is."

"Stop a moment," he said eagerly, feeling that he could not let this beautiful creature leave him as utterly as a midsummer night's dream without some clue as to her origin and destination. "Will you not tell me your name?"

She drew herself erect with a look of indignation.

"Sir, I do not know you. The maidens of Norway do not give their names to strangers."

"Pardon me," he replied, somewhat abashed. "I mean no offense. We have watched the midnight sun together, and—and—I thought—"

He paused, feeling very foolish, and unable to conclude his sentence.

She looked at him demurely from under her long, curling lashes.

"You will often find a peasant girl on the shores of the Altenfjord watching the midnight sun at the same time as yourself," she said, and there was a suspicion of laughter in her voice. "It is not unusual. It is not even necessary that you should remember so little a thing."

"Necessary or not, I shall never forget it," he said with sudden impetuosity. "You are no peasant! Come; if I give you my name will you still deny me yours?"

Her delicate brows drew together in a frown of haughty and decided refusal. "No names please my ears save those that are familiar," she said, with intense coldness. "We shall not meet again. Farewell!"

And without further word or look, she leaned gracefully to the oars, and pulling with a long, steady, resolute stroke, the little boat darted away as lightly and swiftly as a skimming swallow out on the shimmering water, he stood gazing after it till it became a distant speck sparkling like a diamond in the light of sky and wave, and when he could no more watch it with unassisted eyes, he took up his field glass and followed its course attentively. He saw it cutting along as straightly as an arrow, then suddenly it dipped round to the westward, apparently making straight for some shelving rocks, that projected far into the Fjord. It reached them; it grew less and less—it disappeared. At the same time the lustre of the heavens gave way to a pale pearl-like uniform grey tint, that stretched far and wide, folding up as in a mantle all the regal luxury of the Sun- king's palace. The subtle odor and delicate chill of the coming dawn stole freshly across the water. A light haze rose and obscured the opposite islands. Something of the tender melancholy of autumn, though it was late June, toned down the aspect of the before brilliant landscape. A lark rose swiftly from its nest in an adjacent meadow, and, soaring higher and higher, poured from its tiny throat a cascade of delicious melody. The midnight sun no longer shone at midnight; his face smiled with a sobered serenity through the faint early mists of approaching morning.

CHAPTER II.


"Viens donc—je te chanterai des chansons que les esprits des
cimetieres m'ont apprises!"
 
                                          MATURIN

"Baffled!" he exclaimed, with a slight vexed laugh, as the boat vanished from his sight. "By a woman, too! Who would have thought it?"

Who would have thought it, indeed! Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, Baronet, the wealthy and desirable parti for whom many match-making mothers had stood knee-deep in the chilly though sparkling waters of society, ardently plying rod and line with patient persistence, vainly hoping to secure him as a husband for one of their highly proper and passionless daughters,—he, the admired, long-sought- after "eligible," was suddenly rebuffed, flouted—by whom? A stray princess, or a peasant. He vaguely wondered, as he lit a cigar and strolled up and down on the shore, meditating, with a puzzled, almost annoyed expression on his handsome features. He was not accustomed to slights of any kind, however trifling; his position being commanding and enviable enough to attract flattery and friendship from most people. He was the only son of a baronet as renowned for eccentricity as for wealth. He had been the spoilt darling of his mother; and now, both his parents being dead, he was alone in the world, heir to his father's revenues, and entire master of his own actions. And as part of the penalty he had to pay for being rich and good-looking to boot, he was so much run after by women that he found it hard to understand the haughty indifference with which he had just been treated by one of the most fair, if not the fairest of her sex. He was piqued, and his amour propre was wounded.

"I'm sure my question was harmless enough," he mused, half crossly, "She might have answered it."

He glanced out impatiently over the Fjord. There was no sign of his returning yacht as yet.

"What a time those fellows are!" he said to himself. "If the pilot were not on board, I should begin to think they had run the Eulalie aground."

He finished his cigar and threw the end of it into the water; then he stood moodily watching the ripples as they rolled softly up and caressed the shining brown shore at his feet, thinking all the while of that strange girl, so wonderfully lovely in face and form, so graceful and proud of bearing, with her great blue eyes and masses of dusky gold hair.

His meeting with her was a sort of adventure in its way—the first of the kind he had had for some time. He was subject to fits of weariness or caprice, and it was in one of these that he had suddenly left London in the height of the season, and had started for Norway on a yachting cruise with three chosen companions, one of whom, George Lorimer, once an Oxford fellow-student, was now his "chum"—the Pythias to his Damon, the fidus Achates of his closest confidence. Through the unexpected wakening up of energy in the latter young gentleman, who was usually of a most sleepy and indolent disposition, he happened to be quite alone on this particular occasion, though, as a general rule, he was accompanied in his rambles by one if not all three of his friends. Utter solitude was with him a rare occurrence, and his present experience of it had chanced in this wise. Lorimer the languid, Lorimer the lazy, Lorimer who had remained blandly unmoved and drowsy through all the magnificent panorama of the Norwegian coast, including the Sogne Fjord and the toppling peaks of the Justedal glaciers; Lorimer who had slept peacefully in a hammock on deck, even while the yacht was passing under the looming splendors of Melsnipa; Lorimer, now that he had arrived at the Alton Fjord, then at its loveliest in the full glory of the continuous sunshine, developed a new turn of mind, and began to show sudden and abnormal interest in the scenery. In this humor he expressed his desire to "take a sight" of the midnight sun from the island of Seiland, and also declared his resolve to try the nearly impossible ascent of the great Jedke glacier.

Errington laughed at the idea. "Don't tell me," he said, "that you are going in for climbing. And do you suppose I believe that you are interested—you of all people—in the heavenly bodies?"

"Why not?" asked Lorimer, with a candid smile. "I'm not in the least interested in earthly bodies, except my own. The sun's a jolly fellow. I sympathize with him in his present condition. He's in his cups—that's what's the matter—and he can't be persuaded to go to bed. I know his feelings perfectly; and I want to survey his gloriously inebriated face from another point of view. Don't laugh, Phil; I'm in earnest! And I really have quite a curiosity to try my skill in amateur mountaineering. Jedke's the very place for a first effort. It offers difficulties, and"—this with a slight yawn—"I like to surmount difficulties; it's rather amusing."

His mind was so evidently set upon the excursion, that Sir Philip made no attempt to dissuade him from it, but excused himself from accompanying the party on the plea that he wanted to finish a sketch he had recently begun. So that when the Eulalie got up her steam, weighed anchor, and swept gracefully away towards the coast of the adjacent islands, her owner was left, at his desire, to the seclusion of a quiet nook on the shore of the Altenfjord, where he succeeded in making a bold and vivid picture of the scene before him. The colors of the sky had, however, defied his palette, and after one or two futile attempts to transfer to his canvas a few of the gorgeous tints that illumed the landscape, he gave up the task in despair, and resigned himself to the dolce far niente of absolute enjoyment. From his half pleasing, half melancholy reverie the voice of the unknown maiden had startled him, and now,—now she had left him to resume it if he chose,—left him, in chill displeasure, with a cold yet brilliant flash of something like scorn in her wonderful eyes.

Since her departure the scenery, in some unaccountable way, seemed less attractive to him, the songs of the birds, who were all awake, fell on inattentive ears; he was haunted by her face and voice, and he was, moreover, a little out of humor with himself for having been such a blunderer as to give her offense and thus leave an unfavorable impression on her mind.

"I suppose I WAS rude," he considered after a while. "She seemed to think so, at any rate. By Jove! what a crushing look she gave me! A peasant? Not she! If she had said she was an empress I shouldn't have been much surprised. But a mere common peasant, with that regal figure and those white hands! I don't believe it. Perhaps our pilot, Valdemar, knows who she is; I must ask him."

All at once he bethought himself of the cave whence she had emerged. It was close at hand—a natural grotto, arched and apparently lofty. He resolved to explore it. Glancing at his watch he saw it was not yet one o'clock in the morning, yet the voice of the cuckoo called shrilly from the neighboring hills, and a circling group of swallows flitted around him, their lovely wings glistening like jewels in the warm light of the ever-wakeful sun. Going to the entrance of the cave, he looked in. It was formed of rough rock, hewn out by the silent work of the water, and its floor was strewn thick with loose pebbles and polished stones. Entering it, he was able to walk upright for some few paces, then suddenly it seemed to shrink in size and to become darker. The light from the opening gradually narrowed into a slender stream too small for him to see clearly where he was going, thereupon he struck a fusee. At first he could observe no sign of human habitation, not even a rope, or chain, or hook, to intimate that it was a customary shelter for a boat. The fusee went out quickly, and he lit another. Looking more carefully and closely about him, he perceived on a projecting shelf of rock, a small antique lamp, Etruscan in shape, made of iron and wrought with curious letters. There was oil in it, and a half-burnt wick; it had evidently been recently used. He availed himself at once of this useful adjunct to his explorations, and lighting it, was able by the clear and steady flame it emitted, to see everything very distinctly. Right before him was an uneven flight of steps leading down to a closed door.

He paused and listened attentively. There was no sound but the slow lapping of the water near the entrance; within, the thickness of the cavern walls shut out the gay carolling of the birds, and all the cheerful noises of awakening nature. Silence, chillness, and partial obscurity are depressing influences, and the warm blood flowing through his veins, ran a trifle more slowly and coldly as he felt the sort of uncomfortable eerie sensation which is experienced by the jolliest and most careless traveller, when he first goes down to the catacombs in Rome. A sort of damp, earthy shudder creeps through the system, and a dreary feeling of general hopelessness benumbs the faculties; a morbid state of body and mind which is only to be remedied by a speedy return to the warm sunlight, and a draught of generous wine.

Sir Philip, however, held the antique lamp aloft, and descended the clumsy steps cautiously, counting twenty steps in all, at the bottom of which he found himself face to face with the closed door. It was made of hard wood, so hard as to be almost like iron. It was black with age, and covered with quaint carvings and inscriptions; but in the middle, standing out in bold relief among the numberless Runic figures and devices, was written in large well-cut letters the word—

THELMA

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I have it! The girl's name, of course! This is some private retreat of hers, I suppose,—a kind of boudoir like my Lady Winsleigh's, only with rather a difference."

And he laughed aloud, thinking of the dainty gold-satin hangings of a certain room in a certain great mansion in Park Lane, where an aristocratic and handsome lady-leader of fashion had as nearly made love to him as it was possible for her to do without losing her social dignity. His laugh was echoed back with a weird and hollow sound, as though a hidden demon of the cave were mocking him, a demon whose merriment was intense but also horrible. He heard the unpleasant jeering repetition with a kind of careless admiration.

"That echo would make a fortune in Faust, if it could be persuaded to back up Mephistopheles with that truly fiendish, 'HA HA!'" he said, resuming his examination of the name on the door. Then an odd fancy seized him, and he called loudly—

"Thelma!"

"Thelma!" shouted the echo.

"Is that her name?"

"Her name!" replied the echo.

"I thought so!" And Philip laughed again, while the echo laughed wildly in answer. "Just the sort of name to suit a Norwegian nymph or goddess. THELMA is quaint and appropriate, and as far as I can remember there's no rhyme to it in the English language. THELMA!" And he lingered on the pronunciation of the strange word with a curious sensation of pleasure. "There is something mysteriously suggestive about the sound of it; like a chord of music played softly in the distance. Now, can I get through this door, I wonder?"

He pushed it gently. It yielded very slightly, and he tried again and yet again. Finally, he put down the lamp and set his shoulder against the wooden barrier with all his force. A dull creaking sound rewarded his efforts, and inch by inch the huge door opened into what at first appeared immeasurable darkness. Holding up the light he looked in, and uttered a smothered exclamation. A sudden gust of wind rushed from the sea through the passage and extinguished the lamp, leaving him in profound gloom. Nothing daunted he sought his fusee case; there was just one left in it. This he hastily struck, and shielding the glow carefully with one hand, relit his lamp, and stepped boldly into the mysterious grotto.

The murmur of the wind and waves, like spirit-voices in unison, followed him as he entered. He found himself in a spacious winding corridor, that had evidently been hollowed out in the rocks and fashioned by human hands. Its construction was after the ancient Gothic method; but the wonder of the place consisted in the walls, which were entirely covered with shells,—shells of every shape and hue,—some delicate as rose-leaves, some rough and prickly, others polished as ivory, some gleaming with a thousand irridescent colors, others pure white as the foam on high billows. Many of them were turned artistically in such a position as to show their inner sides glistening with soft tints like the shades of fine silk or satin,— others glittered with the opaline sheen of mother-o'-pearl. All were arranged in exquisite patterns, evidently copied from fixed mathematical designs,—there were stars, crescents, roses, sunflowers, hearts, crossed daggers, ships and implements of war, all faithfully depicted with extraordinary neatness and care, as though each particular emblem had served some special purpose.

Sir Philip walked along very slowly, delighted with his discovery, and,—pausing to examine each panel as he passed,—amused himself with speculations as to the meaning of this beautiful cavern, so fancifully yet skillfully decorated.

"Some old place of worship, I suppose," he thought. "There must be many such hidden in different parts of Norway. It has nothing to do with the Christian faith, for among all these devices I don't perceive a single cross."

He was right. There were no crosses; but there were many designs of the sun—the sun rising, the sun setting, the sun in full glory, with all his rays embroidered round him in tiny shells, some of them no bigger than a pin's head. "What a waste of time and labor," he mused. "Who would undertake such a thing nowadays? Fancy the patience and delicacy of finger required to fit all these shells in their places! and they are embedded in strong mortar too, as if the work were meant to be indestructible."

Pull of pleased interest, he pursued his way, winding in and out through different arches, all more or less richly ornamented, till he came to a tall, round column, which seemingly supported the whole gallery, for all the arches converged towards it. It was garlanded from top to bottom with their roses and their leaves, all worked in pink and lilac shells, interspersed with small pieces of shining amber and polished malachite. The flicker of the lamp he carried, made it glisten like a mass of jewel-work, and, absorbed in his close examination of this unique specimen of ancient art, Sir Philip did not at once perceive that another light beside his own glimmered from out the furthest archway a little beyond him,—an opening that led into some recess he had not as yet explored. A peculiar lustre sparkling on one side of the shell-work however, at last attracted his attention, and, glancing up quickly, he saw, to his surprise, the reflection of a strange radiance, rosily tinted and brilliant.

Turning in its direction, he paused, irresolute. Could there be some one living in that furthest chamber to which the long passage he had followed evidently led? some one who would perhaps resent his intrusion as an impertinence? some eccentric artist or hermit who had made the cave his home? Or was it perhaps a refuge for smugglers? He listened anxiously. There was no sound. He waited a minute or two, then boldly advanced, determined to solve the mystery.

This last archway was lower than any of those he had passed through, and he was forced to take off his hat and stoop as he went under it. When he raised his head he remained uncovered, for he saw at a glance that the place was sacred. He was in the presence, not of Life, but Death. The chamber in which he stood was square in form, and more richly ornamented with shell-designs than any other portion of the grotto he had seen, and facing the east was an altar hewn out of the solid rock and studded thickly with amber, malachite and mother-o'-pearl. It was covered With the incomprehensible emblems of a bygone creed worked in most exquisite shell-patterns, but on it,— as though in solemn protest against the past,—stood a crucifix of ebony and carved ivory, before which burned steadily a red lamp.

The meaning of the mysterious light was thus explained, but what chiefly interested Errington was the central object of the place,—a coffin,—of rather a plain granite sarcophagus which was placed on the floor lying from north to south. Upon it,—in strange contrast to the sombre coldness of the stone,—reposed a large wreath of poppies freshly gathered. The vivid scarlet of the flowers, the gleam of the shining shells on the walls, the mournful figure of the ivory Christ stretched on the cross among all those pagan emblems,— the intense silence broken only by the slow drip, drip of water trickling somewhere behind the cavern,—and more than these outward things,—his own impressive conviction that he was with the imperial Dead—imperial because past the sway of empire—all made a powerful impression on his mind. Overcoming by degrees his first sensations of awe, he approached the sarcophagus and examined it. It was solidly closed and mortared all round, so that it might have been one compact coffin-shaped block of stone so far as its outward appearance testified. Stooping more closely, however, to look at the brilliant poppy-wreath, he started back with a slight exclamation. Cut deeply in the hard granite he read for the second time that odd name—

THELMA

It belonged to some one dead, then—not to the lovely living woman who had so lately confronted him in the burning glow of the midnight sun? He felt dismayed at his unthinking precipitation,—he had, in his fancy, actually associated HER, so full of radiant health and beauty, with what was probably a mouldering corpse in that hermetically sealed tenement of stone! This idea was unpleasant, and jarred upon his feelings. Surely she, that golden-haired nymph of the Fjord, had nothing to do with death! He had evidently found his way into some ancient tomb. "Thelma" might be the name or title of some long-departed queen or princess of Norway, yet, if so, how came the crucifix there,—the red lamp, the flowers?

He lingered, looking curiously about him, as if he fancied the shell-embroidered walls might whisper some answer to his thoughts. The silence offered no suggestions. The plaintive figure of the tortured Christ suspended on the cross maintained an immovable watch over all things, and there was a subtle, faint odor floating about as of crushed spices or herbs. While he still stood there absorbed in perplexed conjectures, he became oppressed by want of air. The red hue of the poppy-wreath mingled with the softer glow of the lamp on the altar,—the moist glitter of the shells and polished pebbles, seemed to dazzle and confuse his eyes. He felt dizzy and faint—and hastily made his way out of that close death-chamber into the passage, where he leaned for a few minutes against the great central column to recover himself. A brisk breath of wind from the Fjord came careering through the gallery, and blew coldly upon his forehead. Refreshed by it, he rapidly overcame the sensation of giddiness, and began to retrace his steps through the winding arches, thinking with some satisfaction as he went, what a romantic incident he would have to relate to Lorimer and his other friends, when a sudden glare of light illumined the passage, and he was brought to an abrupt standstill by the sound of a wild "Halloo!" The light vanished; it reappeared. It vanished again, and again appeared, flinging a strong flare upon the shell-worked walls as it approached. Again the fierce "Halloo!" resounded through the hollow cavities of the subterranean temple, and he remained motionless, waiting for an explanation of this unlooked-for turn to the events of the morning.

He had plenty of physical courage, and the idea of any addition to his adventure rather pleased him than otherwise. Still, with all his bravery, he recoiled a little when he first caught sight of the extraordinary being that emerged from the darkness—a wild, distorted figure that ran towards him with its head downwards, bearing aloft in one skinny hand a smoking pine-torch, from which the sparks flew like so many fireflies. This uncanny personage, wearing the semblance of man, came within two paces of Errington before perceiving him; then, stopping short in his headlong career, the creature flourished his torch and uttered a defiant yell.

Philip surveyed him coolly and without alarm, though so weird an object might well have aroused a pardonable distrust, and even timidity. He saw a misshapen dwarf, not quite four feet high, with large, ungainly limbs out of all proportion to his head, which was small and compact. His features were of almost feminine fineness, and from under his shaggy brows gleamed a restless pair of large, full, wild blue eyes. His thick, rough flaxen hair was long and curly, and hung in disordered profusion over his deformed shoulders. His dress was of reindeer skin, very fancifully cut, and ornamented with beads of different colors,—and twisted about him as though in an effort to be artistic, was a long strip of bright scarlet woollen material, which showed up the extreme pallor and ill-health of the meagre countenance, and the brilliancy of the eyes that now sparkled with rage as they met those of Errington. He, from his superior height, glanced down with pity on the unfortunate creature, whom he at once took to be the actual owner of the cave he had explored. Uncertain what to do, whether to speak or remain silent, he moved slightly as though to pass on; but the shock-headed dwarf leaped lightly in his way, and, planting himself firmly before him, shrieked some unintelligible threat, of which Errington could only make out the last words, "Nifleheim" and "Nastrond"

"I believe he is commending me to the old Norwegian inferno," thought the young baronet with a smile, amused at the little man's evident excitement. "Very polite of him, I'm sure! But, after all, I had no business here. I'd better apologize." And forthwith he began to speak in the simplest English words he could choose, taking care to pronounce them very slowly and distinctly.

"I cannot understand you, my good sir; but I see you are angry. I came here by accident. I am going away now at once."

His explanation had a strange effect. The dwarf drew nearer, twirled himself rapidly round three times as though waltzing; then, holding his torch a little to one side, turned up his thin, pale countenance, and, fixing his gaze on Sir Philip, studied every feature of his face with absorbing interest. Then he burst into a violent fit of laughter.

"At last—at last?" he cried in fluent English. "Going now? Going, you say? Never! never! You will never go away any more. No, not without something stolen! The dead have summoned you here! Their white bony fingers have dragged you across the deep! Did you not hear their voices, cold and hollow as the winter wind, calling, calling you, and saying, 'Come, come, proud robber, from over the far seas; come and gather the beautiful rose of the northern forest'? Yes, Yes! You have obeyed the dead—the dead who feign sleep, but are ever wakeful;—you have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and the thing you seek is the life of Sigurd! Yes—yes! it is true. The spirit cannot lie. You must kill, you must steal! See how the blood drips, drop by drop, from the heart of Sigurd! And the jewel you steal—ah, what a jewel!—you shall not find such another in Norway!"

His excited voice sank by degrees to a plaintive and forlorn whisper, and dropping his torch with a gesture of despair on the ground, he looked at it burning, with an air of mournful and utter desolation. Profoundly touched, as he immediately understood the condition of his companion's wandering wits, Errington spoke to him soothingly.

"You mistake me," he said in gentle accents; "I would not steal anything from you, nor have I come to kill you. See," and he held out his hand, "I wouldn't harm you for the world. I didn't know this cave belonged to you. Forgive me for having entered it. I am going to rejoin my friends. Good-bye!"

The strange, half-crazy creature touched his outstretched hand timidly, and with a sort of appeal.

"Good-bye, good-bye!" he muttered. "That is what they all say,—even the dead,—good-bye; but they never go—never, never! You cannot be different to the rest. And you do not wish to hurt poor Sigurd?"

"Certainly not, if YOU are Sigurd," said Philip, half laughing; "I should be very sorry to hurt you."

"You are SURE?" he persisted, with a sort of obstinate eagerness. "You have eyes which tell truths; but there are other things which are truer than eyes—things in the air, in the grass, in the waves, and they talk very strangely of you. I know you, of course! I knew you ages ago—long before I saw you dead on the field of battle, and the black-haired Valkyrie galloped with you to Valhalla! Yes; I knew you long before that, and you knew me; for I was your King, and you were my vassal, wild and rebellious—not the proud, rich Englishman you are to-day."

Errington startled. How could this Sigurd, as he called himself, be aware of either his wealth or nationality?

The dwarf observed his movement of surprise with a cunning smile.

"Sigurd is wise,—Sigurd is brave! Who shall deceive him? He knows you well; he will always know you. The old gods teach Sigurd all his wisdom—the gods of the sea and the wind—the sleepy gods that lie in the hearts of the flowers—the small spirits that sit in shells and sing all day and all night." He paused, and his eyes filled with a wistful look of attention. He drew closer.

"Come," he said earnestly, "come, you must listen to my music; perhaps you can tell me what it means."

He picked up his smouldering torch and held it aloft again; then, beckoning Errington to follow him, he led the way to a small grotto, cut deeply into the wall of the cavern. Here there were no shell patterns. Little green ferns grew thickly out of the stone crevices, and a minute runlet of water trickled slowly down from above, freshening the delicate frondage as it fell. With quick, agile fingers he removed a loose stone from this aperture, and as he did so, a low shuddering wail resounded through the arches—a melancholy moan that rose and sank, and rose again in weird, sorrowful minor echoes.

"Hear her," murmured Sigurd plaintively. "She is always complaining; it is a pity she cannot rest! She is a spirit, you know. I have often asked her what troubles her, but she will not tell me; she only weeps!"

His companion looked at him compassionately. The sound that so affected his disordered imagination was nothing but the wind blowing through the narrow hole formed by the removal of the stone; but it was useless to explain this simple fact to one in his condition.

"Tell me," and Sir Philip spoke very gently, "is this your home?"

The dwarf surveyed him almost scornfully. "MY home!" he echoed. "My home is everywhere—on the mountains, in the forests, on the black rocks and barren shores! My soul lives between the sun and the sea; my heart is with Thelma!"

Thelma! Here was perhaps a clue to the mystery.

"Who is Thelma?" asked Errington somewhat hurriedly.

Sigurd broke into violent and derisive laughter. "Do you think I will tell YOU?" he cried loudly. "YOU,—one of that strong, cruel race who must conquer all they see; who covet everything fair under heaven, and will buy it, even at the cost of blood and tears! Do you think I will unlock the door of my treasure to YOU? No, no; besides," and his voice sank lower, "what should you do with Thelma? She is dead!"

And, as if possessed by a sudden access of frenzy, he brandished his pine-torch wildly above his head till it showered a rain of bright sparks above him, and exclaimed furiously—"Away, away, and trouble me not! The days are not yet fulfilled,—the time is not yet ripe. Why seek to hasten my end? Away, away, I tell you! Leave me in peace! I will die when Thelma bids me; but not till then!"

And he rushed down the long gallery and disappeared in the furthest chamber, where he gave vent to a sort of long, sobbing cry, which rang dolefully through the cavern and then subsided into utter silence.

Feeling as if he were in a chaotic dream, Errington pursued his interrupted course through the winding passages with a bewildered and wondering mind. What strange place had he inadvertently lighted on? and who were the still stranger beings in connection with it? First the beautiful girl herself; next the mysterious coffin, hidden in its fanciful shell temple; and now this deformed madman, with the pale face and fine eyes; whose utterances, though incoherent, savored somewhat of poesy and prophecy. And what spell was attached to that name of Thelma? The more he thought of his morning's adventure, the more puzzled he became. As a rule, he believed more in the commonplace than in the romantic—most people do. But truth to tell, romance is far more common than the commonplace. There are few who have not, at one time or other of their lives, had some strange or tragic episode woven into the tissue of their every-day existence; and it would be difficult to find one person even among humdrum individuals, who, from birth to death, has experienced nothing out of the common.

Errington generally dismissed all tales of adventure as mere exaggerations of heated fancy; and, had he read in some book, of a respectable nineteenth-century yachtsman having such an interview with a madman in a sea-cavern, he would have laughed at the affair as an utter improbability, though he could not have explained why he considered it improbable. But now it had occurred to himself, he was both surprised and amused at the whole circumstance; moreover, he was sufficiently interested and carious to be desirous of sifting the matter to its foundation.

It was, however, somewhat of a relief to him when he again readied the outer cavern. He replaced the lamp on the shelf where he had found it, and stepped once more into the brilliant light of the very early dawn, which then had all the splendor of full morning. There was a deliciously balmy wind, the blue sky was musical with a chorus of larks, and every breath of air that waved aside the long grass sent forth a thousand odors from hidden beds of wild thyme and bog- myrtle.

He perceived the Eulalie at anchor in her old place on the Fjord; she had returned while he was absent on his explorations. Gathering together his rug and painting materials, he blew a whistle sharply three times; he was answered from the yacht, and presently a boat, manned by a couple of sailors, came skimming over the water towards him. It soon reached the shore, and, entering it, he was speedily rowed away from the scene of his morning's experience back to his floating palace, where, as yet, none of his friends were stirring.

"How about Jedke?" he inquired of one of his men. "Did they climb it?"

A slow grin overspread the sailor's brown face.

"Lord bless you, no, sir! Mr. Lorimer, he just looked at it and sat down in the shade; the other gentleman played pitch-and-toss with pebbles. They was main hungry too, and ate a mighty sight of 'am and pickles. Then they came on board and all turned in at once."

Errington laughed. He was amused at the utter failure of Lorimer's recent sudden energy, but not surprised. His thoughts were, however, busied with something else, and he next asked—"Where's our pilot?"

"Valdemar Svensen, sir? He went down to his bunk as soon as we anchored, for a snooze, he said."

"All right. If he comes on deck before I do, just tell him not to go ashore for anything till I see him. I want to speak to him after breakfast."

"Ay, ay, sir."

Whereupon Sir Philip descended to his private cabin. He drew the blind at the port-hole to shut out the dazzling sunlight, for it was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and quickly undressing, he flung himself into his berth with a slight, not altogether unpleasant, feeling of exhaustion. To the last, as his eyes closed drowsily, he seemed to hear the slow drip, drip of the water behind the rocky cavern, and the desolate cry of the incomprehensible Sigurd, while through these sounds that mingled with the gurgle of little waves lapping against the sides of the Eulalie, the name of "Thelma" murmured itself in his ears till slumber drowned his senses in oblivion.

CHAPTER III.


    "Hast any mortal name,
     Fit appellation for this dazzling frame,
     Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth?"
 
                                           KEATS.

"This is positively absurd," murmured Lorimer, in mildly injured tones, seven hours later, as he sat on the edge of his berth, surveying Errington, who, fully dressed, and in the highest spirits, had burst in to upbraid him for his laziness while he was yet but scantily attired. "I tell you, my good fellow, there are some things which the utmost stretch of friendship will NOT stand. Here am I in shirt and trousers with only one sock on, and you dare to say you have had an adventure! Why, if you had cut a piece out of the sun, you ought to wait till a man is shaved before mentioning it."

"Don't be snappish, old boy!" laughed Errington gaily. "Put on that other sock and listen. I don't want to tell those other fellows just yet, they might go making inquiries about her—"

"Oh, there is a 'her' in the case, is there?" said Lorimer, opening his eyes rather widely. "Well, Phil! I thought you had had enough, and something too much, of women."

"This is not a woman!" declared Philip with heat and eagerness, "at least not the sort of woman _I_ have ever known! This is a forest- empress, sea-goddess, or sun-angel! I don't know WHAT she is, upon my life!"

Lorimer regarded him with an air of reproachful offense.

"Don't go on—please don't!" he implored. "I can't stand it—I really can't! Incipient verse-mania is too much for me. Forest- empress, sea-goddess, sun-angel—by Jove! what next? You are evidently in a very bad way. If I remember rightly, you had a flask of that old green Chartreuse with you. Ah! that accounts for it! Nice stuff, but a little too strong."

Errington laughed, and, unabashed by his friend's raillery, proceeded to relate with much vivacity and graphic fervor the occurrences of the morning. Lorimer listened patiently with a forbearing smile on his open, ruddy countenance. When he had heard everything he looked up and inquired calmly—

"This is not a yarn, is it?"

"A yarn!" exclaimed Philip. "Do you think I would invent such a thing?"

"Can't say," returned Lorimer imperturbably. "You are quite capable of it. It's a very creditable crammer, due to Chartreuse. Might have been designed by Victor Hugo; it's in his style. Scene, Norway— midnight. Mysterious maiden steals out of a cave and glides away in a boat over the water; man, the hero, goes into cave, finds a stone coffin, says—'Qu'est-ce que c'est? Dieu! C'est la mort!' Spectacle affreux! Staggers back perspiring; meets mad dwarf with torch; mad dwarf talks a good deal—mad people always do,—then yells and runs away. Man comes out of cave and—and—goes home to astonish his friends; one of them won't be astonished,—that's me!"

"I don't care," said Errington. "It's a true story for all that. Only, I say, don't talk of it before the others; let's keep our own counsel—"

"No poachers allowed on the Sun-Angel Manor!" interrupted Lorimer gravely. Philip went on without heeding him.

"I'll question Valdemar Svensen after breakfast. He knows everybody about here. Come and have a smoke on deck when I give you the sign, and we'll cross-examine him."

Lorimer still looked incredulous. "What's the good of it?" he inquired languidly. "Even if it's all true you had much better leave this goddess, or whatever you call her, alone, especially if she has any mad connections. What do YOU want with her?"

"Nothing!" declared Errington, though hiss color heightened. "Nothing, I assure you! It's just a matter of curiosity with me. I should like to know who she is—that's all! The affair won't go any further."

"How do you know?" and Lorimer began to brush his stiff curly hair with a sort of vicious vigor. "How can you tell? I'm not a spiritualist, nor any sort of a humbug at all, I hope, but I sometimes indulge in presentiments. Before we started on this cruise, I was haunted by that dismal old ballad of Sir Patrick Spens—"

'The King's daughter of Norroway Tis thou maun bring her hame!'

"And here you have found her, or so it appears. What's to come of it, I wonder?"

"Nothing's to come of it; nothing WILL come of it!" laughed Philip. "As I told you, she said she was a peasant. There's the breakfast- bell! Make haste, old boy, I'm as hungry as a hunter!"

And he left his friend to finish dressing, and entered the saloon, where he greeted his two other companions, Alec, or, as he was oftener called, Sandy Macfarlane, and Pierre Duprez; the former an Oxford student,—the latter a young fellow whose acquaintance he had made in Paris, and with whom he had kept up a constant and friendly intercourse. A greater contrast than these two presented could scarcely be imagined. Macfarlane was tall and ungainly, with large loose joints that seemed to protrude angularly out of him in every direction,—Duprez was short, slight and wiry, with a dapper and by no means ungraceful figure. The one had formal gauche manners, a never-to-be-eradicated Glasgow accent, and a slow, infinitely tedious method of expressing himself,—the other was full of restless movement and pantomimic gesture, and being proud of his English, plunged into that language recklessly, making it curiously light and flippant, though picturesque, as he went. Macfarlane was destined to become a shining light of the established Church of Scotland, and therefore took life very seriously,—Duprez was the spoilt only child of an eminent French banker, and had very little to do but enjoy himself, and that he did most thoroughly, without any calculation or care for the future. On all points of taste and opinion they differed widely; but there was no doubt about their both being good-hearted fellows, without any affectation of abnormal vice or virtue.

"So you did not climb Jedke after all!" remarked Errington laughingly, as they seated themselves at the breakfast table.

"My friend, what would you!" cried Duprez. "I have not said that I will climb it; no! I never say that I will do anything, because I'm not sure of myself. How can I be? It is that cher enfant, Lorimer, that said such brave words! See!. . . we arrive; we behold the shore—all black, great, vast!. . . rocks like needles, and, higher than all, this most fierce Jedke—bah! what a name!—straight as the spire of a cathedral. One must be a fly to crawl up it, and we, we are not flies—ma foi! no! Lorimer, he laugh, he yawn—so! He say, 'not for me to-day; I very much thank you!' And then, we watch the sun. Ah! that was grand, glorious, beautiful!" And Duprez kissed the tips of his fingers in ecstacy.

"What did YOU think about it, Sandy?" asked Sir Philip.

"I didna think much," responded Macfarlane, shortly. "It's no sae grand a sight as a sunset in Skye. And it's an uncanny business to see the sun losin' a' his poonctooality, and remainin' stock still, as it were, when it's his plain duty to set below the horizon. Mysel', I think it's been fair over-rated. It's unnatural an' oot o' the common, say what ye like."

"Of course it is," agreed Lorimer, who just then sauntered in from his cabin. "Nature IS most unnatural. I always thought so. Tea for me, Phil, please; coffee wakes me up too suddenly. I say, what's the programme to-day?"

"Fishing in the Alten," answered Errington promptly.

"That suits me perfectly," said Lorimer, as he leisurely sipped his tea. "I'm an excellent fisher. I hold the line and generally forget to bait it. Then,—while it trails harmlessly in the water, I doze; thus both the fish and I are happy."

"And this evening," went on Errington, "we must return the minister's call. He's been to the yacht twice. We're bound to go out of common politeness."

"Spare us, good Lord!" groaned Lorimer.

"What a delightfully fat man is that good religious!" cried Duprez. "A living proof of the healthiness of Norway!"

"He's not a native," put in Macfarlane; "he's frae Yorkshire. He's only been a matter of three months here, filling the place o' the settled meenister who's awa' for a change of air."

"He's a precious specimen of a humbug, anyhow," sighed Lorimer drearily. "However, I'll be civil to him as long as he doesn't ask me to hear him preach. At that suggestion I'll fight him. He's soft enough to bruise easily."

"Ye're just too lazy to fight onybody," declared Macfarlane.

Lorimer smiled sweetly. "Thanks, awfully! I dare say you're right. I've never found it worth while as yet to exert myself in any particular direction. No one has asked me to exert myself; no one wants me to exert myself; therefore, why should I?"

"Don't ye want to get on in the world?" asked Macfarlane, almost brusquely.

"Dear me, no! What an exhausting idea! Get on in the world—what for? I have five hundred a year, and when my mother goes over to the majority (long distant be that day, for I'm very fond of the dear old lady), I shall have five thousand—more than enough to satisfy any sane man who doesn't want to speculate on the Stock Exchange. YOUR case, my good Mac, is different. You will be a celebrated Scotch divine. You will preach to a crowd of pious numskulls about predestination, and so forth. You will be stump-orator for the securing of seats in paradise. Now, now, keep calm!—don't mind me. It's only a figure of speech! And the numskulls will call you a 'rare powerful rousin' preacher'—isn't that the way they go on? and when you die—for die you must, most unfortunately—they will give you a three-cornered block of granite (if they can make up their minds to part with the necessary bawbees) with your name prettily engraved thereon. That's all very nice; it suits some people. It wouldn't suit me."

"What WOULD suit you?" queried Errington. "You find everything more or less of a bore."

"Ah, my good little boy!" broke in Duprez. "Paris is the place for you. You should live in Paris. Of that you would never fatigue yourself."

"Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania," returned Lorimer, meditatively. "That was a neat idea about the coffins though. I never hoped to dine off a coffin."

"Ah! you mean the Taverne de l'Enfer?" exclaimed Duprez. "Yes; the divine waitresses wore winding sheets, and the wine was served in imitation skulls. Excellent! I remember; the tables were shaped like coffins."

"Gude Lord Almighty!" piously murmured Macfarlane. "What a fearsome sicht!"

As he pronounced these words with an unusually marked accent, Duprez looked inquiring.

"What does our Macfarlane say?"

"He says it must have been a 'fearsome sicht,'" repeated Lorimer, with even a stronger accent than Sanby's own, "which, mon cher Pierre, means all the horrors in your language; affreux, epouvantable, navrant—anything you like, that is sufficiently terrible."

"Mais, point du tout!" cried Duprez energetically. "It was charming! It made us laugh at death—so much better than to cry! And there was a delicious child in a winding-sheet; brown curls, laughing eyes and little mouth; ha ha! but she was well worth kissing!"

"I'd rather follow ma own funeral, than kiss a lass in a winding- sheet," said Sandy, in solemn and horrified tones. "It's just awfu' to think on."

"But, see, my friend," persisted Duprez, "you would not be permitted to follow your own funeral, not possible,—voila! Your ARE permitted to kiss the pretty one in the winding-sheet. It IS possible. Behold the difference!"

"Never mind the Taverne de l'Enfer just now," said Errington, who had finished his breakfast hurriedly." It's time for you fellows to get your fishing toggery on. I'm off to speak to the pilot."

And away he went, followed more slowly by Lorimer, who, though he pretended indifference, was rather curious to know more, if possible, concerning his friend's adventure of the morning. They found the pilot, Valdemar Svensen, leaning at his ease against the idle wheel, with his face turned towards the eastern sky. He was a stalwart specimen of Norse manhood, tall and strongly built, with thoughtful, dignified features, and keen, clear hazel eyes. His chestnut hair, plentifully sprinkled with gray, clustered thickly over a broad brow, that was deeply furrowed with many a line of anxious and speculative thought, and the forcible brown hand that rested lightly on the spokes of the wheel, told its own tale of hard and honest labor. Neither wife nor child, nor living relative had Valdemar; the one passion of his heart was the sea. Sir Philip Errington had engaged him at Christiansund, hearing of him there as a man to whom the intricacies of the Fjords, and the dangers of rock-bound coasts, were more familiar than a straight road on dry lake, and since then the management of the Eulalie had been entirely entrusted to him. Though an eminently practical sailor, he was half a mystic, and believed in the wildest legends of his land with more implicit faith than many so-called Christians believe in their sacred doctrines. He doffed his red cap respectfully now as Errington and Lorimer approached, smilingly wishing them "a fair day." Sir Philip offered him a cigar, and, coming to the point at once, asked abruptly—

"I say, Svensen, are there any pretty girls in Bosekop?"

The pilot drew the newly lit cigar from his mouth, and passed his rough hand across his forehead in a sort of grave perplexity.

"It is a matter in which I am foolish," he said at last, "for my ways have always gone far from the ways of women. Girls there are plenty, I suppose, but—" he mused with pondering patience for awhile. Then a broad smile broke like sunshine over his embrowned countenance, as he continued, "Now, gentlemen, I do remember well; it is said that at Bosekop yonder, are to be found some of the homeliest wenches in all Norway."

Errington's face fell at this reply. Lorimer turned away to hide the mischievous smile that came on his lips at his friend's discomfiture.

"I KNOW it was that Chartreuse," he thought to himself. "That and the midnight sun-effects. Nothing else!"

"What!" went on Philip. "No good-looking girls at all about here, eh?"

Svensen shook his head, still smilingly.

"Not at Bosekop, sir, that I ever heard of."

"I say!" broke in Lorimer, "are there any old tombs or sea-caves, or places of that sort close by, worth exploring?"

Valdemar Svensen answered this question readily, almost eagerly.

"No, sir! There are no antiquities of any sort; and as for eaves, there are plenty, but only the natural formations of the sea, and none of these are curious or beautiful on this side of the Fjord."

Lorimer poked his friend secretly in the ribs.

"You've been dreaming, old fellow!" he whispered slyly. "I knew it was a crammer!"

Errington shook him off good-humoredly,

"Can you tell me," he said, addressing Valdemar again in distinct accents, "whether there is any place, person, or thing near here called THELMA?"

The pilot started; a look of astonishment and fear came into his eyes; his hand went instinctively to his red cap, as though in deference to the name.

"The Froken Thelma!" he exclaimed, in low tones. "Is it possible that you have seen her?"

"Ah, George, what do you say now?" cried Errington delightedly. "Yes, yes, Valdemar; the Froken Thelma, as you call her. Who is she? . . . What is she?—and how can there be no pretty girls in Bosekop if such a beautiful creature as she lives there?"

Valdemar looked troubled and vexed.

"Truly, I thought not of the maiden," he said gravely. "'Tis not for me to speak of the daughter of Olaf," here his voice sank a little, and his face grew more and more sombre. "Pardon me, sir, but how did you meet her?"

"By accident," replied Errington promptly, not caring to relate his morning's adventure for the pilot's benefit. "Is she some great personage here?"

Svensen sighed, and smiled somewhat dubiously.

"Great? Oh, no; not what you would call great. Her father, Olaf Guldmar, is a bonde,—that is, a farmer in his own right. He has a goodly house, and a few fair acres well planted and tilled,—also he pays his men freely,—but those that work for him are all he sees,— neither he nor his daughter ever visit the town. They dwell apart, and have nothing in common with their neighbors."

"And where do they live?" asked Lorimer, becoming as interested as he had formerly been incredulous.

The pilot leaned lightly over the rail of the deck and pointed towards the west.

"You see that great rock shaped like a giant's helmet, and behind it a high green knoll, clustered thick with birch and pine?"

They nodded assent.

"At the side of the knoll is the bonde's house, a good eight-mile walk from the outskirts of Bosekop. Should you ever seek to rest there, gentlemen," and Svensen spoke with quiet resolution, "I doubt whether you will receive a pleasant welcome."

And he looked at them both with an inquisitive air, as though seeking to discover their intentions.

"Is that so?" drawled Lorimer lazily, giving his friend an expressive nudge. "Ah! WE shant trouble them! Thanks for your information, Valdemar! We don't intend to hunt up the—what d'ye call him?—the bonde, if he's at all surly. Hospitality that gives you greeting and a dinner for nothing,—that's what suits ME."

"Our people are not without hospitality," said the pilot, with a touch of wistful and appealing dignity. "All along your journey, gentlemen, you have been welcomed gladly, as you know. But Olaf Guldmar is not like the rest of us; he has the pride and fierceness of olden days; his manners and customs are different; and few like him. He is much feared."

"You know him then?" inquired Errington carelessly.

"I know him," returned Valdemar quietly. "And his daughter is fair as the sun and the sea. But it is not my place to speak of them—." He broke off, and after a slightly embarrassed pause, asked, "Will the Herren wish to sail to-day?"

"No Valdemar," answered Errington indifferently. "Not till to- morrow, when we'll visit the Kaa Fjord if the weather keeps fair."

"Very good, sir," and the pilot, tacitly avoiding any further converse with his employer respecting the mysterious Thelma and her equally mysterious father, turned to examine the wheel and compass as though something there needed his earnest attention. Errington and Lorimer strolled up and down the polished white deck arm-in-arm, talking in low tones.

"You didn't ask him about the coffin and the dwarf," said Lorimer.

"No; because I believe he knows nothing of either, and it would be news to him which I'm not bound to give. If I can manage to see the girl again the mystery of the cave may explain itself."

"Well, what are you going to do?"

Errington looked meditative. "Nothing at present We'll go fishing with the others. But, I tell you what, if you're up to it, we'll leave Duprez and Macfarlane at the minister's house this evening and tell them to wait for us there,—once they all begin to chatter they never know how time goes. Meanwhile you and I will take the boat and row over in search of this farmer's abode. I believe there's a short cut to it by water; at any rate I know the way SHE went."

"'I know the way she went home with her maiden posy!'" quoted Lorimer, with a laugh. "You are hit Phil, 'a very palpable hit'! Who would have thought it! Clara Winsleigh needn't poison her husband after all in-order to marry you, for nothing but a sun-empress will suit you now."

"Don't be a fool, George," said Errington, half vexedly, as the hot color mounted to his face in spite of himself. "It is all idle curiosity, nothing else. After what Svensen told us, I'm quite as anxious to see this gruff old bonde as his daughter."

Lorimer held up a reproachful finger. "Now, Phil, don't stoop to duplicity—not with me, at any rate. Why disguise your feelings? Why, as the tragedians say, endeavor to crush the noblest and best emotions that ever warm the BOO-ZUM of man? Chivalrous sentiment and admiration for beauty,—chivalrous desire to pursue it and catch it and call it your own,—I understand it all, my dear boy! But my prophetic soul tells me you will have to strangle the excellent Olaf Guldmar—heavens! what a name!—before you will be allowed to make love to his fair CHEE-ILD. Then don't forget the madman with the torch,—he may turn up in the most unexpected fashion and give you no end of trouble. But, by Jove, it IS a romantic affair, positively quite stagey! Something will come of it, serious or comic. I wonder which?"

Errington laughed, but said nothing in reply, as their two companions ascended from the cabin at that moment, in full attire for the fishing expedition, followed by the steward bearing a large basket of provisions for luncheon,—and all private conversation came to an end. Hastening the rest of their preparations, within twenty minutes they were skimming across the Fjord in a long boat manned by four sailors, who rowed with a will and sent the light craft scudding through the water with the swiftness of an arrow. Landing, they climbed the dewy hills spangled thick with forget-me- nots and late violets, till they reached a shady and secluded part of the river, where, surrounded by the songs of hundreds of sweet- throated birds, they commenced their sport, which kept them, well employed till a late hour in the afternoon.

CHAPTER IV.


"Thou art violently carried away from grace; there is a devil haunts
thee in the likeness of a fat old man,—a ton of man is thy
companion."
                                            SHAKESPEARE

The Reverend Charles Dyceworthy sat alone in the small dining-room of his house at Bosekop, finishing a late tea, and disposing of round after round of hot buttered toast with that suave alacrity he always displayed in the consumption of succulent eatables. He was a largely made man, very much on the wrong side of fifty, with accumulations of unwholesome fat on every available portion of his body. His round face was cleanly shaven and shiny, as though its flabby surface were frequently polished with some sort of luminous grease instead of the customary soap. His mouth was absurdly small and pursy for so broad a countenance,—his nose seemed endeavoring to retreat behind his puffy cheeks as though painfully aware of its own insignificance,—and he had little, sharp, ferret-like eyes of a dull mahogany brown, which were utterly destitute of even the faintest attempt at any actual expression. They were more like glass beads than eyes, and glittered under their scanty fringe of pale- colored lashes with a sort of shallow cunning which might mean malice or good-humor,—no one looking at them could precisely determine which. His hair was of an indefinite shade, neither light nor dark, somewhat of the tinge of a dusty potato before it is washed clean. It was neatly brushed and parted in the middle with mathematical precision, while from the back of his head it was brought forward in two projections, one on each side, like budding wings behind his ears. It was impossible for the most fastidious critic to find fault with the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy's hands. He had beautiful hands, white, soft, plump and well-shaped,—his delicate filbert nails were trimmed with punctilious care, and shone with a pink lustre that was positively charming. He was evidently an amiable man, for he smiled to himself over his tea,—he had a trick of smiling,—ill-natured people said he did it on purpose, in order to widen his mouth and make it more in pro-portion to the size of his face. Such remarks, however, emanated only from the spiteful and envious who could not succeed in winning the social popularity that everywhere attended Mr. Dyceworthy's movements. For he was undoubtedly popular,—no one could deny that. In the small Yorkshire town where he usually had his abode, he came little short of being adored by the women of his own particular sect, who crowded to listen to his fervent discourses, and came away from them on the verge of hysteria, so profoundly moved were their sensitive souls by his damnatory doctrines. The men were more reluctant in their admiration, yet even they were always ready to admit "that he was an excellent fellow, with his heart in the right place."

He had a convenient way of getting ill at the proper seasons, and of requiring immediate change of air, whereupon his grateful flock were ready and willing to subscribe the money necessary for their beloved preacher to take repose and relaxation in any part of the world he chose. This year, however, they had not been asked to furnish the usual funds for travelling expenses, for the resident minister of Bosekop, a frail, gentle old man, had been seriously prostrated during the past winter with an affection of the lungs, which necessitated his going to a different climate for change and rest. Knowing Dyceworthy as a zealous member of the Lutheran persuasion, and, moreover, as one who had in his youth lived for some years in Christiania,—thereby gaining a knowledge of the Norwegian tongue,— he invited him to take his place for his enforced time of absence, offering him his house, his servants, his pony-carriage and an agreeable pecuniary douceur in exchange for his services,—proposals which the Reverend Charles eagerly accepted. Though Norway was not exactly new to him, the region of the Alton Fjord was, and he at once felt, though he knew not why, that the air there would be the very thing to benefit his delicate constitution. Besides, it looked well for at least ONE occasion, to go away for the summer without asking his congregation to pay for his trip. It was generous on his part, almost noble.

The ladies of his flock wept at his departure and made him socks, comforters, slippers, and other consoling gear of the like description to recall their sweet memories to his saintly mind during his absence from their society. But, truth to tell, Mr. Dyceworthy gave little thought to these fond and regretful fair ones; he was much too comfortable at Bosekop to look back with any emotional yearning to the ugly, precise little provincial town he had left behind him. The minister's quaint, pretty house suited him perfectly; the minister's servants were most punctual in their services: the minister's phaeton conveniently held his cumbrous person, and the minister's pony was a quiet beast, that trotted good-temperedly wherever it was guided, and shied at nothing. Yes, he was thoroughly comfortable,—as comfortable as a truly pious fat man deserves to be, and all the work he had to do was to preach twice on Sundays, to a quiet, primitive, decently ordered congregation, who listened to his words respectfully though without displaying any emotional rapture. Their stolidity, however, did not affect him,—he preached to please himself,—loving above all things to hear the sound of his own voice, and never so happy as when thundering fierce denunciations against the Church of Rome. His thoughts seemed tending in that direction now, as he poured himself out his third cup of tea and smilingly shook his head over it, while he stirred the cream and sugar in,—for he took from his waistcoat pocket a small glittering object and laid it before him on the table, still shaking his head and smiling with a patient, yet reproachful air of superior wisdom. It was a crucifix of mother-o'- pearl and silver, the symbol of the Christian faith. But it seemed to carry no sacred suggestions to the soul of Mr. Dyceworthy. On the contrary, he looked at it with an expression of meek ridicule,— ridicule that bordered on contempt.

"A Roman," he murmured placidly to himself, between two large bites of toast. "The girl is a Roman, and thereby hopelessly damned."

And he smiled again,—more sweetly than before, as though the idea of hopeless damnation suggested some peculiarly agreeable reflections. Unfolding his fine cologne-scented cambric handkerchief, he carefully wiped his fat white fingers free from the greasy marks of the toast, and, taking up the objectionable cross gingerly, as though it were red-hot, he examined it closely on all sides. There were some words engraved on the back of it, and after some trouble Mr. Dyceworthy spelt them out. They were "Passio Christi, conforta me. Thelma."

He shook his head with a sort of resigned cheerfulness.

"Hopelessly damned," he murmured again gently, "unless—"

What alternative suggested itself to his mind was not precisely apparent, for his thoughts suddenly turned in a more frivolous direction. Rising from the now exhausted tea-table, he drew out a small pocket-mirror and surveyed himself therein with a mild approval. With the extreme end of his handkerchief he tenderly removed two sacrilegious crumbs that presumed to linger in the corners of his piously pursed mouth. In the same way he detached a morsel of congealed butter that clung pertinaciously to the end of his bashfully retreating nose. This done, he again looked at himself with increased satisfaction, and, putting by his pocket-mirror, rang the bell. It was answered at once by a tall, strongly built woman, with a colorless, stolid countenance,—that might have been carved out of wood for any expression it had in it.

"Ulrika," said Mr. Dyceworthy blandly, "you can clear the table."

Ulrika, without answering, began to pack the tea-things together in a methodical way, without clattering so much as a plate or spoon, and, piling them compactly on a tray, was about to leave the room, when Mr. Dyceworthy called to her, "Ulrika!"

"Sir?"

"Did you ever see a thing like this before?" and he held up the crucifix to her gaze.

The woman shuddered, and her dull eyes lit up with a sudden terror.

"It is the witch's charm!" she muttered thickly, while her pale face grew yet paler. "Burn it, sir!—burn it, and the power will leave her."

Mr. Dyceworthy laughed indulgently. "My good woman, you mistake," he said suavely. "Your zeal for the true gospel leads you into error. There are thousands of misguided persons who worship such a thing as this. It is often all of our dear Lord they know. Sad, very sad! But still, though they, alas! are not of the elect, and are plainly doomed to perdition,—they are not precisely what are termed witches, Ulrika."

"SHE is," replied the woman with a sort of ferocity; "and, if I had my way, I would tell her so to her face, and see what would happen to her then!"

"Tut, tut!" remarked Mr. Dyceworthy amiably. "The days of witchcraft are past. You show some little ignorance, Ulrika. You are not acquainted with the great advancement of recent learning."

"Maybe, maybe," and Ulrika turned to go; but she muttered sullenly as she went, "There be them that know and could tell, and them that will have her yet."

She shut the door behind her with a sharp clang, and, left to himself, Mr. Dyceworthy again smiled—such a benignant, fatherly smile! He then walked to the window and looked out. It was past seven o'clock, an hour that elsewhere would have been considered evening, but in Bosekop at that season it still seemed afternoon.

The sun was shining brilliantly, and in the minister's front garden the roses were all wide awake. A soft moisture glittered on every tiny leaf and blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of sweet violets scented each puff of wind, and now and then the call of the cuckoo pierced the air with a subdued, far-off shrillness.

Prom his position Mr. Dyceworthy could catch a glimpse through the trees of the principal thoroughfare of Bosekop—a small, primitive street enough, of little low houses, which, though unpretending from without, were roomy and comfortable within. The distant, cool sparkle of the waters of the Fjord, the refreshing breeze, the perfume of the flowers, and the satisfied impression left on his mind by recent tea and toast—all these things combined had a soothing effect on Mr. Dyceworthy, and with a sigh of absolute comfort he settled his large person in a deep easy chair and composed himself for pious meditation.

He meditated long,—with fast-closed eyes and open mouth, while the earnestness of his inward thoughts was clearly demonstrated now and then by an irrepressible,—almost triumphant,—cornet-blast from that trifling elevation of his countenance called by courtesy a nose, when his blissful reverie was suddenly broken in upon by the sound of several footsteps crunching slowly along the garden path, and, starting up from his chair, he perceived four individuals clad in white flannel costumes and wearing light straw hats trimmed with fluttering blue ribbons, who were leisurely sauntering up to his door, and stopping occasionally to admire the flowers on their way. Mr. Dyceworthy's face reddened visibly with excitement.

"The gentlemen from the yacht," he murmured to himself, hastily settling his collar and cravat, and pushing up his cherubic wings of hair more prominently behind his ears. "I never thought they would come. Dear me! Sir Philip Errington himself, too! I must have refreshments instantly."

And he hurried from the room, calling his orders to Ulrika as he went, and before the visitors had time to ring, he had thrown open the door to them himself, and stood smiling urbanely on the threshold, welcoming them with enthusiasm,—and assuring Sir Philip especially how much honored he felt, by his thus visiting, familiarly and unannounced, his humble dwelling. Errington waved his many compliments good-humoredly aside, and allowed himself and his friends to be marshalled into the best parlor, the drawing-room of the house, a pretty little apartment whose window looked out upon a tangled yet graceful wilderness of flowers.

"Nice, cosy place this," remarked Lorimer, as he seated himself negligently on the arm of the sofa. "You must be pretty comfortable here?"

Their perspiring and affable host rubbed his soft white hands together gently.

"I thank Heaven it suits my simple needs," he answered meekly. "Luxuries do not become a poor servant of God."

"Ah, then you are different to many others who profess to serve the same Master," said Duprez with a sourire fin that had the devil's own mockery in it. "Monsieur le bon Dieu is very impartial! Some serve Him by constant over-feeding, others by constant over- starving; it is all one to Him apparently! How do you know which among His servants He likes best, the fat or the lean?"

Sandy Macfarlane, though slightly a bigot for his own form of doctrine, broke into a low chuckle of irrepressible laughter at Duprez's levity, but Mr. Dyceworthy's flabby face betokened the utmost horror.

"Sir," he said gravely, "there are subjects concerning which it is not seemly to speak without due reverence. He knoweth His own elect. He hath chosen them out from the beginning. He summoned forth from the million, the glorious apostle of reform, Martin Luther—"

"Le bon gaillard!" laughed Duprez. "Tempted by a pretty nun! What man could resist! Myself, I would try to upset all the creeds of this world if I saw a pretty nun worth my trouble. Yes, truly! A pity though, that the poor Luther died of over-eating; his exit from life so undignified!"

"Shut up, Duprez," said Errington severely. "You displease Mr. Dyceworthy by your fooling."

"Oh, pray do not mention it, Sir Philip," murmured the reverend gentleman with a mild patience. "We must accustom ourselves to hear with forbearance the opinions of all men, howsoever contradictory, otherwise our vocation is of no avail. Yet is it sorely grievous to me to consider that there should be any person or persons existent who lack the necessary faith requisite for the performance of God's promises."

"Ye must understand, Mr. Dyceworthy," said Macfarlane in his slow, deliberate manner, "that ye have before ye a young Frenchman who doesna believe in onything except himsel'—and even as to whether he himsel' is a mon or a myth, he has his doots—vera grave doots."

Duprez nodded delightedly. "That is so!" he exclaimed. "Our dear Sandy puts it so charmingly! To be a myth seems original,—to be a mere man, quite ordinary. I believe it is possible to find some good scientific professor who would prove me to be a myth—the moving shadow of a dream—imagine!—how perfectly poetical!"

"You talk too much to be a dream, my boy," laughed Errington, and turning to Mr. Dyceworthy, he added, "I'm afraid you must think us a shocking set. We are really none of us very religious, I fear, though," and he tried to look serious; "if it had not been for Mr. Lorimer, we should have come to church last Sunday. Mr. Lorimer was, unfortunately, rather indisposed."

"Ya-as!" drawled that gentleman, turning from the little window where he had been gathering a rose for his button-hole. "I was knocked up; had fits, and all that sort of thing; took these three fellows all their time on Sunday to hold me down!"

"Dear me!" and Mr. Dyceworthy was about to make further inquiries concerning Mr. Lorimer's present state of health, when the door opened, and Ulrika entered, bearing a large tray laden with wine and other refreshments. As she set it down, she gave a keen, covert glance round the room, as though rapidly taking note of the appearance and faces of all the young men, then, with a sort of stiff curtsey, she departed as noiselessly as she had come,—not, however, without leaving a disagreeable impression on Errington's mind.

"Rather a stern Phyllis, that waiting-maid of yours," he remarked, watching his host, who was carefully drawing the cork from one of the bottles of wine.

Mr. Dyceworthy smiled. "Oh, no, no! not stern at all," he answered sweetly. "On the contrary, most affable and kind-hearted. Her only fault is that she is a little zealous,—over-zealous for the purity of the faith; and she has suffered much; but she is an excellent woman, really excellent! Sir Philip, will you try this Lacrima Christi?"

"Lacrima Christi!" exclaimed Duprez. "You do not surely get that in Norway?"

"It seems strange, certainly," replied Mr. Dyceworthy, "but it is a fact that the Italian or Papist wines are often used here. The minister whose place I humbly endeavor to fill has his cellar stocked with them. The matter is easy of comprehension when once explained. The benighted inhabitants of Italy, a land, lost in the darkness of error, still persist in their fasts, notwithstanding the evident folly of their ways—and the Norwegian sailors provide them with large quantities of fish for their idolatrous customs, bringing back their wines in exchange."

"A very good idea," said Lorimer, sipping the Lacrima with evident approval—"Phil, I doubt if your brands on board the Eulalie are better than this."

"Hardly so good," replied Errington with some surprise, as he tasted the wine and noted its delicious flavor. "The minister must be a fine connoisseur. Are there many other families about here, Mr. Dyceworthy, who know how to choose their wines so well?"

Mr. Dyceworthy smiled with a dubious air.

"There is one other household that in the matter of choice liquids is almost profanely particular," he said. "But they are people who are ejected with good reason from respectable society, and,—it behooves me not to speak of their names."

"Oh, indeed!" said Errington, while a sudden and inexplicable thrill of indignation fired his blood and sent it in a wave of color up to his forehead—"May I ask—"

But he was interrupted by Lorimer, who, nudging him slyly on one side, muttered, "Keep cool, old fellow! You can't tell whether he's talking about the Guldmar folk! Be quiet—you don't want every one to know your little game."

Thus adjured, Philip swallowed a large gulp of wine, to keep down his feelings, and strove to appear interested in the habits and caprices of bees, a subject into which Mr. Dyceworthy had just inveigled Duprez and Macfarlane.

"Come and see my bees," said the Reverend Charles almost pathetically. "They are emblems of ever-working and patient industry,—storing up honey for others to partake thereof."

"They wudna store it up at a', perhaps, if they knew that," observed Sandy significantly.

Mr. Dyceworthy positively shone all over with beneficence.

"They WOULD store it up, sir; yes, they would, even if they knew! It is God's will that they should store it up; it is God's will that they should show an example of unselfishness, that they should flit from flower to flower sucking therefrom the sweetness to impart into strange palates unlike their own. It is a beautiful lesson; it teaches us who are the ministers of the Lord to likewise suck the sweetness from the flowers of the living gospel, and impart it gladly to the unbelievers who shall find it sweeter than the sweetest honey!"

And he shook his head piously several times, while the pores of his fat visage exuded holy oil. Duprez sniggered secretly. Macfarlane looked preternaturally solemn.

"Come," repeated the reverend gentleman, with an inviting smile. "Come and see my bees,—also my strawberries! I shall be delighted to send a basket of the fruit to the yacht, if Sir Philip will permit me?"

Errington expressed his thanks with due courtesy, and hastened to seize the opportunity that presented itself for breaking away from the party.

"If you will excuse us for twenty minutes or so, Mr. Dyceworthy," he said, "Lorimer and I want to consult a fellow here in Bosekop about some new fishing tackle. We shan't be gone long. Mac, you and Duprez wait for us here. Don't commit too many depredations on Mr. Dyceworthy's strawberries."

The reason for their departure was so simply and naturally given, that it was accepted without any opposing remarks. Duprez was delighted to have the chance of amusing himself by harassing the Reverend Charles with open professions of utter atheism, and Macfarlane, who loved an argument more than he loved whiskey, looked forward to a sharp discussion presently concerning the superiority of John Knox, morally and physically, over Martin Luther. So that when the others went their way, their departure excited no suspicion in the minds of their friends, and most unsuspecting of all was the placid Mr. Dyceworthy, who, had he imagined for an instant the direction which they were going, would certainly not have discoursed on the pleasures of bee-keeping with the calmness and placid conviction, that always distinguished him when holding forth on any subject that was attractive to his mind. Leading the way through his dewy, rose-grown garden, and conversing amicably as he went, he escorted Macfarlane and Duprez to what he called with a gentle humor his "Bee-Metropolis," while Errington and Lorimer returned to the shore of the Fjord, where they had left their boat moored to a small, clumsily constructed pier,—and entering it, they set themselves to the oars and pulled away together with the long, steady, sweeping stroke rendered famous by the exploits of the Oxford and Cambridge men. After some twenty minutes' rowing, Lorimer looked up and spoke as he drew his blade swiftly through the bright green water.

"I feel as though I were aiding and abetting you in some crime, Phil. You know, my first impression of this business remains the same. You had much better leave it alone."

"Why?" asked Errington coolly.

"Well, 'pon my life I don't know why. Except that, from long experience, I have proved that it's always dangerous and troublesome to run after a woman. Leave her to run after you—she'll do it last enough."

"Wait till you see her. Besides, I'm not running after any woman," averred Philip with some heat.

"Oh, I beg your pardon—I forgot. She's not a woman; she's a Sun- angel. You are rowing, not running, after a Sun-angel. Is that correct? I say, don't drive through the water like that; you'll pull the boat round."

Errington slackened his speed and laughed. "It's only curiosity," he said, lifting his hat, and pushing back the clustering dark-brown curls from his brow. "I bet you that sleek Dyceworthy fellow meant the old bonde and his daughter, when he spoke of persons who were 'ejected' from the social circles of Bosekop. Fancy Bosekop society presuming to be particular—what an absurd idea!"

"My good fellow, don't pretend to be so deplorably ignorant! Surely you know that a trumpery village or a two-penny town is much more choice and exclusive in its 'sets' than a great city? I wouldn't live in a small place for the world. Every inhabitant would know the cut of my clothes by heart, and the number of buttons on my waistcoat. The grocer would copy the pattern of my trousers,—the butcher would carry a cane like mine. It would be simply insufferable. To change the subject, may I ask you if you know which way you are going, for it seems to me we're bound straight for a smash on that uncomfortable-looking rock, where there is certainly no landing-place."

Errington stopped pulling, and, standing up in the boat, began to examine the surroundings with keen interest. They were close to the great crag "shaped like a giant's helmet," as Valdemar Svensen had said. It rose sheer out of the water, and its sides were almost perpendicular. Some beautiful star-shaped sea anemones clung to it in a varicolored cluster on one projection, and the running ripple of the small waves broke on its jagged corners with a musical splash, and sparkle of white foam. Below them, in the emerald mirror of the Fjord, it was so clear that they could see the fine white sand lying at the bottom, sprinkled thick with shells and lithe moving creatures of all shapes, while every now and then, there streamed past them, brilliantly tinted specimens of the Medusae, with their long feelers or tendrils, looking like torn skins of crimson and azure floss silk.

The place was very silent; only the sea-gulls circled round and round the summit of the great rock, some of them occasionally swooping down on the unwary fishes, their keen eyes perceived in the waters beneath, then up again they soared, swaying their graceful wings and uttering at intervals that peculiar wild cry that in solitary haunts sounds so intensely mournful. Errington gazed about him in doubt for some minutes, then suddenly his face brightened. He sat down again in the boat and resumed his oar.

"Row quietly, George," he said in a subdued tone "Quietly—round to the left."

The oars dipped noiselessly, and the boat shot forward,—then swerved sharply round in the direction,—and there before them lay a small sandy creek, white and shining as though sprinkled with powdered silver. From this, a small but strongly-built wooden pier ran out into the sea. It was carved all over with fantastic figures, and in it at equal distances, were fastened iron rings, such as are used for the safe mooring of boats. One boat was there already, and Errington recognized it with delight. It was that in which he had seen the mysterious maiden disappear. High and dry on the sand, out of reach of the tides, was a neat sailing-vessel; its name was painted round the stern—The Valkyrie.

As the two friends ran their boat on shore, and fastened it to the furthest ring of the convenient pier, they caught the distant sound of the plaintiff "coo-cooing" of turtle doves.

"You've done it this time, old boy," said Lorimer, speaking in a whisper, though he knew not why. "This is the old bonde's own private landing-place evidently, and here's a footpath leading somewhere. Shall we follow it?"

Philip emphatically assented, and, treading softly, like the trespassers they felt themselves to be, they climbed the ascending narrow way that guided them up from the seashore, round through a close thicket of pines, where their footsteps fell noiselessly on a thick carpet of velvety green moss, dotted prettily here and there with the red gleam of ripening wild strawberries. Everything was intensely still, and as yet there seemed no sign of human habitation. Suddenly a low whirring sound broke upon their ears, and Errington, who was a little in advance of his companion, paused abruptly with a smothered exclamation, and drew back on tip-toe, catching Lorimer by the arm.

"By Jove!" he whispered excitedly, "we've come right up to the very windows of the house. Look!"

Lorimer obeyed, and for once, the light jest died upon his tips. Surprise and admiration held him absolutely silent.

CHAPTER V.


"Elle filait et souriait—et je crois qn'elle enveloppa mon coeur
avec son fil."—Heine

Before them, close enough for their outstretched hands to have touched it, was what appeared to be a framed picture, exquisitely painted,—a picture perfect in outline matchless in color, faultless in detail,—but which was in reality nothing but a large latticed window thrown wide open to admit the air. They could now see distinctly through the shadows cast by the stately pines, a long, low, rambling house, built roughly, but strongly, of wooden rafters, all overgrown with green and blossoming creepers; but they scarcely glanced at the actual building, so strongly was their attention riveted on the one window before them. It was surrounded by an unusually broad framework, curiously and elaborately carved, and black as polished ebony. Flowers grew all about it,—sweet peas, mignonette, and large purple pansies—while red and white climbing roses rioted in untrained profusion over its wide sill. Above it was a quaintly built dovecote, where some of the strutting fan-tailed inhabitants were perched, swelling out their snowy breasts, and discoursing of their domestic trials in notes of dulcet melancholy; while lower down, three or four ring-doves nestled on the roof in a patch of sunlight, spreading up their pinions like miniature sails, to catch the warmth and lustre.

Within the deep, shadowy embrasure, like a jewel placed on dark velvet, was seated a girl spinning,—no other than the mysterious maiden of the shell cavern. She was attired in a plain, straight gown, of some soft white woolen stuff, cut squarely at her throat; her round, graceful arms were partially bare, and as the wheel turned swiftly, and her slender hands busied themselves with the flax, she smiled, as though some pleasing thought had touched her mind. Her smile had the effect of sudden sunshine in the dark room where she sat and span,—it was radiant and mirthful as the smile of a happy child. Yet her dark blue eyes remained pensive and earnest, and the smile soon faded, leaving her fair face absorbed and almost dreamy. The whirr-whirring of the wheel grew less and less rapid,— it slackened,—it stopped altogether,—and, as though startled by some unexpected sound, the girl paused and listened, pushing away the clustering masses of her rich hair from her brow. Then rising slowly from her seat, she advanced to the window, put aside the roses with one hand, and looked out,—thus forming another picture as beautiful, if not more beautiful, than the first.

Lorimer drew his breath hard. "I say, old fellow," he whispered; but Errington pressed his arm with vice-like firmness, as a warning to him to be silent, while they both stepped farther back into the dusky gloom of the pine boughs.

The girl, meanwhile, stood motionless, in a half-expectant attitude, and, seeing her there, some of the doves on the roof flew down and strutted on the ground before her, coo-cooing proudly, as though desirous of attracting her attention. One of them boldly perched on the window-sill; she glanced at the bird musingly, and softly stroked its opaline wings and shining head without terrifying it. It seemed delighted to be noticed, and almost lay down under her hand in order to be more conveniently caressed. Still gently smoothing its feathers, she leaned further out among the clambering wealth of blossoms, and called in a low, penetrating tone, "Father! father! is that you?"

There was no answer; and, after waited a minute or two, she moved and resumed her former seat, the stray doves flew back to their customary promenade on the roof, and the drowsy whirr-whirr of the spinning-wheel murmured again its monotonous hum upon the air.

"Come on, Phil," whispered Lorimer, determined not to be checked this time; "I feel perfectly wretched! It's mean of us to be skulking about here, as if we were a couple of low thieves waiting to trap some of those birds for a pigeon-pie. Come away,—you've seen her; that's enough."

Errington did not move. Holding back a branch of pine, he watched the movements of the girl at her wheel with absorbed fascination.

Suddenly her sweet lips parted, and she sang a weird, wild melody, that seemed, like a running torrent, to have fallen from the crests of the mountains, bringing with it echoes from the furthest summits, mingled with soft wailings of a mournful wind.

Her voice was pure as the ring of fine crystal—deep, liquid, and tender, with a restrained passion in it that stirred Errington's heart and filled it with a strange unrest and feverish yearning,— emotions which were new to him, and which, while he realized their existence, moved him to a sort of ashamed impatience. He would have willingly left his post of observation now, if only for the sake of shaking off his unwonted sensations; and he took a step or two backwards for that purpose, when Lorimer, in his turn, laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

"For Heaven's sake, let us hear the song through!" he said in subdued tones. "What a voice! A positive golden flute!"

His rapt face betokened his enjoyment, and Errington, nothing loth, still lingered, his eyes fixed on the white-robed slim figure framed in the dark old rose-wreathed window—the figure that swayed softly with the motion of the wheel and the rhythm of the song,—while flickering sunbeams sparkled now and then on the maiden's dusky gold hair, or touched up a warmer tint on her tenderly flushed cheeks, and fair neck, more snowy than the gown she wore. Music poured from her lips as from the throat of a nightingale. The words she sang were Norwegian, and her listeners understood nothing of them; but the melody,—the pathetic appealing melody,—soul-moving as all true melody must be, touched the very core of their hearts, and entangled them in a web of delicious reveries.

"Talk of Ary Scheffer's Gretchen!" murmured Lorimer with a sigh. "What a miserable, pasty, milk-and-watery young person she is beside that magnificent, unconscious beauty! I give in, Phil! I admit your taste. I'm willing to swear that she's a Sun-Angel if you like. Her voice has convinced me of that."

At that instant the song ceased. Errington turned and regarded him steadfastly.

"Are YOU hit, George?" he said softly, with a forced smile.

Lorimer's face flushed, but he met his friend's eyes frankly.

"I am no poacher, old fellow," he answered in the same quiet accents; "I think you know that. If that girl's mind is as lovely as her face, I say, go in and win!"

Sir Philip smiled. His brow cleared and an expression of relief settled there. The look of gladness was unconscious; but Lorimer saw it at once and noted it.

"Nonsense!" he said in a mirthful undertone. "How can I go in and win, as you say? What am I to do? I can't go up to that window and speak to her,—she might take me for a thief."

"You look like a thief," replied Lorimer, surveying his friend's athletic figure, clad in its loose but well-cut yachting suit of white flannel, ornamented with silver anchor buttons, and taking a comprehensive glance from the easy pose of the fine head and handsome face, down to the trim foot with the high and well-arched instep, "very much like a thief? I wonder I haven't noticed it before. Any London policeman would arrest you on the mere fact of your suspicious appearance."

Errington laughed. "Well, my boy, whatever my looks may testify, I am at this moment an undoubted trespasser on private property,—and so are you for that matter. What shall we do?"

"Find the front door and ring the bell," suggested George promptly. "Say we are benighted travellers and have lost our way. The bonde can but flay us. The operation, I believe, is painful, but it cannot last long."

"George, you are incorrigible! Suppose we go back and try the other side of this pine-wood? That might lead us to the front of the house."

"I don't see why we shouldn't walk coolly past that window," said Lorimer. "If any observation is made by the fair 'Marguerite' yonder, we can boldly say we have come to see the bonde."

Unconsciously they had both raised their voices a little during the latter part of their hasty dialogue, and at the instant when Lorimer uttered the last words, a heavy hand was laid on each of their shoulders,—a hand that turned them round forcibly away from the window they had been gazing at, and a deep, resonant voice addressed them.

"The bonde? Truly, young men, you need seek no further,—I am Olaf Guldmar!"

Had he said, "I am an Emperor!" he could not have spoken with more pride.

Errington and his friend were for a moment speechless,—partly from displeasure at the summary manner in which they had been seized and twisted round like young uprooted saplings, and partly from surprise and involuntary admiration for the personage who had treated them with such scant courtesy. They saw before them a man somewhat above the middle height, who might have served an aspiring sculptor as a perfect model for a chieftain of old Gaul, or a dauntless Viking. His frame was firmly and powerfully built, and seemed to be exceptionally strong and muscular; yet an air of almost courtly grace pervaded his movements, making each attitude he assumed more or less picturesque. He was broad-shouldered and deep-chested; his face was full and healthily colored, while his head was truly magnificent. Well-poised and shapely, it indicated power, will, and wisdom; and was furthermore adorned by a rough, thick mass of snow- white hair that shone in the sunlight like spun silver. His beard was short and curly, trimmed after the fashion of the warriors of old Rome; and, from under his fierce, fuzzy, grey eyebrows, a pair of sentinel eyes, that were keen, clear, and bold as an eagle's, looked out with a watchful steadiness—steadiness that like the sharp edge of a diamond, seemed warranted to cut through the brittle glass of a lie. Judging by his outward appearance, his age might have been guessed at as between fifty-eight and sixty, but he was, in truth, seventy-two, and more strong, active, and daring than many another man whose years are not counted past the thirties. He was curiously attired, after something of the fashion of the Highlander, and something yet more of the ancient Greek, in a tunic, vest, and loose jacket all made of reindeer skin, thickly embroidered with curious designs worked in coarse thread and colored beads; while thrown carelessly over his shoulders and knotted at his waist, was a broad scarf of white woollen stuff, or wadmel, very soft-looking and warm. In his belt he carried a formidable hunting-knife, and as he faced the two intruders on his ground, he rested one hand lightly yet suggestively on a weighty staff of pine, which was notched all over with quaint letters and figures, and terminated in a curved handle at the top. He waited for the young man to speak, and finding they remained silent, he glanced at them half angrily and again repeated his words—

"I am the bonde,—Olaf Guldmar. Speak your business and take your departure; my time is brief!"

Lorimer looked up with his usual nonchalance,—a faint smile playing about his lips. He saw at once that the old farmer was not a man to be trifled with, and he raised his cap with a ready grace as he spoke.

"Fact is," he said frankly, "we've no business here at all—not the least in the world. We are perfectly aware of it! We are trespassers, and we know it. Pray don't be hard on us, Mr.—Mr. Guldmar!"

The bonde glanced him over with a quick lightening of the eyes, and the suspicion of a smile in the depths of his curly beard. He turned to Errington.

"Is this true? You came here on purpose, knowing the ground was private property?"

Errington, in his turn, lifted his cap from his clustering brown curls with that serene and stately court manner which was to him second nature.

"We did," he confessed, quietly following Lorimer's cue, and seeing also that it was best to be straightforward. "We heard you spoken of in Bosekop, and we came to see if you would permit us the honor of your acquaintance."

The old man struck his pine-staff violently into the ground, and his face flushed wrathfully.

"Bosekop!" he exclaimed. "Talk to me of a wasp's nest! Bosekop! You shall hear of me there enough to satisfy your appetite for news. Bosekop! In the days when my race ruled the land, such people as they that dwell there would have been put to sharpen my sword on the grindstone, or to wait, hungry and humble, for the refuse of the food left from my table!"

He spoke with extraordinary heat and passion,—it was evidently necessary to soothe him. Lorimer took a covert glance backward over his shoulder towards the lattice window, and saw that the white figure at the spinning-wheel had disappeared.

"My dear Mr. Guldmar," he then said with polite fervor, "I assure you I think the Bosekop folk by no means deserve to sharpen your sword on the grindstone, or to enjoy the remains of your dinner! Myself, I despise them! My friend here, Sir Philip Errington, despises them—don't you, Phil?"

Errington nodded demurely.

"What my friend said just now is perfectly true," continued Lorimer. "We desire the honor of your acquaintance,—it will charm and delight us above all things!"

And his face beamed with a candid, winning, boyish smile, which was very captivating in its own way, and which certainly had its effect on the old bonde, for his tone softened, though he said gravely—

"My acquaintance, young men, is never sought by any. Those who are wise, keep away from me. I love not strangers, it is best you should know it. I freely pardon your trespass; take your leave, and go in peace."

The two friends exchanged disconsolate looks. There really seemed nothing for it, but to obey this unpleasing command. Errington made one more venture.

"May I hope, Mr. Guldmar," he said with persuasive courtesy, "that you will break through your apparent rule of seclusion for once and visit me on board my yacht? You have no doubt seen her—the Eulalie- -she lies at anchor in the Fjord."

The bonde looked him straight in the eyes. "I have seen her. A fair toy vessel to amuse an idle young man's leisure! You are he that in that fool's hole of a Bosekop, is known as the 'rich Englishman,'— an idle trifler with time,—an aimless wanderer from those dull shores where they eat gold till they die of surfeit! I have heard of you,—a mushroom knight, a fungus of nobility,—an ephemeral growth on a grand decaying old tree, whose roots lie buried in the annals of a far forgotten past."

The rich, deep voice of the old man quivered as he spoke, and a shadow of melancholy flitted across his brow. Errington listened with unruffled patience. He heard himself, his pleasures, his wealth, his rank, thus made light of, without the least offense. He met the steady gaze of the bonde quietly, and slightly bent his head as though in deference to his remarks.

"You are quite right," he said simply. "We modern men are but pigmies compared with the giants of old time. Royal blood itself is tainted nowadays. But, for myself, I attach no importance to the mere appurtenances of life,—the baggage that accompanies one on that brief journey. Life itself is quite enough for me."

"And for me too," averred Lorimer, delighted that his friend had taken the old former's scornful observations so good-naturedly. "But, do you know, Mr. Guldmar, you are making life unpleasant for us just now, by turning us out? The conversation is becoming interesting! Why not prolong it? We have no friends in Bosekop, and we are to anchor here for some days. Surely you will allow us to come and see you again?"

Olaf Guldmar was silent. He advanced a step nearer, and studied them both with such earnest and searching scrutiny, that as they remembered the real attraction that had drawn them thither, the conscious blood mounted to their faces, flushing Errington's forehead to the very roots of his curly brown hair. Still the old man gazed as though he sought to read their very souls. He muttered something to himself in Norwegian, and, finally, to their utter astonishment, he drew his hunting-knife from its sheath, and with a rapid, wild gesture, threw it on the ground and placed his foot upon it.

"Be it so!" he said briefly. "I cover the blade! You are men; like men you speak truth. As such, I receive you! Had you told me a lie concerning your coming here,—had you made pretense of having lost your way, or other such shifty evasion, your path would never have again crossed mine. As it is,—welcome!"

And he held out his hand with a sort of royal dignity, still resting one foot on the fallen weapon. The young men, struck by his action and gratified by his change of manner and the genial expression that now softened his rugged features, were quick to respond to his friendly greeting, and the bonde, picking up and re-sheathing his hunting-knife as if he had done nothing at all out of the common, motioned them towards the very window on which their eyes had been so long and so ardently fixed.

"Come!" he said. "You must drain a cup of wine with me before you leave. Your unguided footsteps led you by the wrong path,—I saw your boat moored to my pier, and wondered who had been venturesome enough to trample through my woodland. I might have guessed that only a couple of idle boys like yourselves, knowing no better, would have pushed their way to a spot that all worthy dwellers in Bosekop, and all true followers of the Lutheran devilry, avoid as though the plague were settled in it."

And the old man laughed, a splendid, mellow laugh, with the ring of true jollity in it,—a laugh that was infectious, for Errington and Lorimer joined in it heartily without precisely knowing why. Lorimer, however, thought it seemly to protest against the appellation "idle boys."

"What do you take us for, sir?" he said with lazy good-nature. "I carry upon my shoulders the sorrowful burden of twenty-six years,— Philip, there, is painfully conscious of being thirty,—may we not therefore dispute the word 'boys' as being derogatory to our dignity? You called us 'men' a while ago,—remember that!"

Olaf Guldmar laughed again. His suspicious gravity had entirely disappeared, leaving his face a beaming mirror of beneficence and good-humor.

"So you ARE men," he said cheerily, "men in the bud, like leaves on a tree. But you seem boys to a tough old stump of humanity such as I am. That is my way,—my child Thelma, though they tell me she is a woman grown, is always a babe to me. 'Tis one of the many privileges of the old, to see the world about them always young and full of children."

And he led the way past the wide-open lattice, where they could dimly perceive the spinning-wheel standing alone, as though thinking deeply of the fair hands that had lately left it idle, and so round to the actual front of the house, which was exceedingly picturesque, and literally overgrown with roses from ground to roof. The entrance door stood open;—it was surrounded by a wide, deep porch richly carved and grotesquely ornamented, having two comfortable seats within it, one on each side. Through this they went, involuntarily brushing down as they passed, a shower of pink and white rose- leaves, and stepped into a wide passage, where upon walls of dark, polished pine, hung a large collection of curiously shaped weapons, all of primitive manufacture, such as stone darts and rough axes, together with bows and arrows and two-handled swords, huge as the fabled weapon of William Wallace.

Opening a door to the right the bonde stood courteously aside and bade them enter, and they found themselves in the very apartment where they had seen the maiden spinning.

"Sit down, sit down!" said their host hospitably. "We will have wine directly, and Thelma shall come hither. Thelma! Thelma! Where is the child? She wanders hither and thither like a mountain sprite. Wait here, my lads, I shall return directly."

And he strode away, leaving Errington and Lorimer delighted at the success of their plans, yet somewhat abashed too. There was a peace and gentle simplicity about the little room in which they were, that touched the chivalrous sentiment in their natures and kept them silent. On one side of it, half a dozen broad shelves supported a goodly row of well-bound volumes, among which the time-honored golden names of Shakespeare and Scott glittered invitingly, together with such works as Chapman's Homer, Byron's "Childe Harold," the Poems of John Keats, Gibbon's Rome, and Plutarch; while mingled with these were the devotional works in French of Alphonse de Liguori, the "Imitation," also in French,—and a number of books with titles in Norwegian,—altogether an heterogenous collection of literature, yet not without interest as displaying taste and culture on the part of those to whom it belonged. Errington, himself learned in books, was surprised to see so many standard works in the library of one who professed to be nothing but a Norwegian farmer, and his respect for the sturdy old bonde increased. There were no pictures in the room,—the wide lattice window on one hand, looking out on the roses and pine-wood, and the other smaller one, close to the entrance door, from which the Fjord was distinctly visible, were sufficient pictures in themselves, to need no others. The furniture was roughly made of pine, and seemed to have been carved by hand,—some of the chairs were very quaint and pretty and would have sold in a bric-a- brac shop for more than a sovereign apiece. On the wide mantle-shelf was a quantity of curious old china that seemed to have been picked up from all parts of the world,—most of it was undoubtedly valuable. In one dark corner stood an ancient harp; then there was the spinning-wheel,—itself a curiosity fit for a museum,— testifying dumbly of the mistress of all these surroundings, and on the floor there was something else,—something that both the young men were strongly inclined to take possession of. It was only a bunch of tiny meadow daisies, fastened together with a bit of blue silk. It had fallen,—they guessed by whom it had been worn,—but neither made any remark, and both, by some strange instinct, avoided looking at it, as though the innocent little blossoms carried within them some terrible temptation. They were conscious of a certain embarrassment, and making an effort to break through it, Lorimer remarked softly—

"By Jove, Phil, if this old Guldmar really knew what you are up to, I believe he would bundle you out of this place like a tramp! Didn't you feel a sneak when he said we had told the truth like men?"

Philip smiled dreamily. He was seated in one of the quaintly carved chairs, half absorbed in what was evidently a pleasing reverie.

"No; not exactly," he replied. "Because we DID tell him the truth; we did want to know him, and he's worth knowing too! He is a magnificent-looking fellow; don't you think so?"

"Rather!" assented Lorimer, with emphasis. "I wish there were any hope of my becoming such a fine old buffer in my DECADENCE,—it would be worth living for if only to look at myself in the glass now and then. He rather startled me when he threw down that knife, though. I suppose it is some old Norwegian custom?"

"I suppose so," Errington answered, and then was silent, for at that moment the door opened and the old farmer returned, followed by a girl bearing a tray glittering with flasks of Italian wine, and long graceful glasses shaped like round goblets, set on particularly slender stems. The sight of the girl disappointed the eager visitors, for though she was undeniably pretty, she was not Thelma. She was short and plump, with rebellious nut-brown locks, that rippled about her face and from under her close white cap with persistent untidiness. Her cheeks were as round and red as lore- apples, and she had dancing blue eyes that appeared for ever engaged in good-natured efforts to outsparkle each other. She wore a spotless apron, lavishly trimmed with coquettish little starched frills,—her hands were, unfortunately, rather large and coarse,— but her smile, as she set down the tray and curtsied respectfully to the young men, was charming, disclosing as it did, tiny teeth as even and white as a double row of small pearls.

"That is well, Britta," said Guldmar, speaking in English, and assisting her to place the glasses. "Now, quick! . . . run after thy mistress to the shore,—her boat cannot yet have left the creek,— bid her return and come to me,—tell her there are friends here who will be glad of her presence."

Britta hurried away at once, but Errington's heart sank. Thelma had gone!—gone, most probably, for one of those erratic journeys across the Fjord to the cave where he had first seen her. She would not come back, he felt certain; not even at her father's request would that beautiful, proud maiden consent to alter her plans. What an unlucky destiny was his! Absorbed in disappointed reflections, he scarcely heard the enthusiastic praises Lorimer was diplomatically bestowing on the bonde's wine. He hardly felt its mellow flavor on his own palate, though it was in truth delicious, and fit for the table of a monarch. Guldmar noticed the young baronet's abstraction, and addressed him with genial kindness.

"Are you thinking, Sir Philip, of my rough speeches to you yonder? No offense was meant, no offense!. . ." the old fellow paused, and laughed over his wine-glass. "Yet I may as well be honest about it! Offense WAS meant; but when I found that none was taken, my humor changed."

A slight, half-weary smile played on Errington's lips. "I assure you, sir," he said, "I agreed with you then and agree with you now in every word you uttered. You took my measure very correctly, and allow me to add that no one can be more conscious of my own insignificance that I am myself. The days we live in are insignificant; the chronicle of our paltry doings will be skipped by future readers of the country's history. Among a society of particularly useless men, I feel myself to be one of the most useless. If you could show me any way to make my life valuable—"

He paused abruptly, and his heart beat with inexplicable rapidity. A light step and the rustle of a dress was heard coming through the porch; another perfumed shower of rose-leaves fell softly on the garden path; the door of the room opened, and a tall, fair, white- robed figure shone forth from the dark background of the outer passage; a figure that hesitated on the threshold, and then advanced noiselessly and with a reluctant shyness. The old bonde turned round in his chair with a smile.

"Ah, here she is!" he said fondly. "Where hast thou been, my Thelma?"

CHAPTER VI.


    "And Sigurd the Bishop said,
    'The old gods are not dead,
     For the great Thor still reigns,
     And among the Jarls and Thanes
     The old witchcraft is spread.'"
 
                    LONGFELLOW'S Saga of King Olaf

The girl stood silent, and a faint blush crimsoned her cheeks. The young men had risen at her entrance, and in one fleeting glance she recognized Errington, though she gave no sign to that effect.

"See, my darling," continued her father, "here are English visitors to Norway. This is Sir Philip Errington, who travels through our wild waters in the great steam yacht now at anchor in the Fjord; and this is his friend, Mr.—Mr.—Lorimer,—have I caught your name rightly, my lad?" he continued, turning to George Lorimer with a kindly smile.

"You have, sir," answered that gentleman promptly, and then he was mute, feeling curiously abashed in the presence of this royal- looking young lady, who, encircled by her father's arm, raised her deep, dazzling blue eyes, and serenely bent her stately head to him as his name was mentioned.

The old farmer went on, "Welcome them, Thelma mine!—friends are scarce in these days, and we must not be ungrateful for good company. What! what! I know honest lads when I see them! Smile on them, my Thelma!—and then we will warm their hearts with another cup of wine."

As he spoke, the maiden advanced with a graceful, even noble air, and extending both her hands to each of the visitors in turn, she said—

"I am your servant, friends; in entering this house you do possess it. Peace and heart's greeting!"

The words were a literal translation of a salutation perfectly common in many parts of Norway—a mere ordinary expression of politeness; but, uttered in the tender, penetrating tones, of the most musical voice they had ever heard, and accompanied by the warm, frank, double handclasp of those soft, small, daintily shaped hands, the effect on the minds of the generally self-possessed, fashionably bred young men of the world, was to confuse and bewilder them to the last degree. What could they answer to this poetical, quaint formula of welcome? The usual latitudes, such as "Delighted, I'm sure;" or, "Most happy—am charmed to meet you?" No; these remarks, deemed intelligent by the lady rulers of London drawing-rooms, would, they felt, never do here. As well put a gentleman in modern evening dress en face with a half-nude scornfully beautiful statue of Apollo, as trot out threadbare, insincere commonplaces in the hearing of this clear-eyed child of nature, whose pure, perfect face seemed to silently repel the very passing shadow of a falsehood.

Philip's brain whirled round and about in search of some suitable reply, but could find none; and Lorimer felt himself blushing like a schoolboy, as he stammered out something incoherent and eminently foolish, though he had sense enough left to appreciate the pressure of those lovely hands as long as it lasted.

Thelma, however, appeared not to notice their deep embarrassment— she had not yet done with them. Taking the largest goblet on the table, she filled it to the brim with wine, and touched it with her lips,—then with a smile in which a thousand radiating sunbeams seemed to quiver and sparkle, she lifted it towards Errington. The grace of her attitude and action wakened him out of his state of dreamy bewilderment—in his soul he devoutly blessed these ancient family customs, and arose to the occasion like a man. Clasping with a tender reverence the hands that upheld the goblet, he bent his handsome head and drank a deep draught, while his dark curls almost touched her fair ones,—and then an insane jealousy possessed him for a moment, as he watched her go through the same ceremony with Lorimer.

She next carried the now more than half-emptied cup to the bonde, and said as she held it, laughing softly—

"Drink it all, father!—if you leave a drop, you know these gentlemen will quarrel with us, or you with them."

"That is true!" said Olaf Guldmar with great gravity; "but it will not be my fault, child, nor the fault of wasted wine."

And he drained the glass to its dregs and set it upside down on the table with a deep sigh of satisfaction and refreshment. The ceremony concluded, it was evident the ice of reserve was considered broken, for Thelma seated herself like a young queen, and motioned her visitors to do the same with a gesture of gracious condescension.

"How did you find your way here?" she asked with sweet, yet direct abruptness, giving Sir Philip a quick glance, in which there was a sparkle of mirth, though her long lashes veiled it almost instantly.

Her entire lack of stiffness and reserve set the young men at their ease, and they fell into conversation freely, though Errington allowed Lorimer to tell the story of their trespass in his own fashion without interference. He instinctively felt that the young lady who listened with so demure a smile to that plausible narrative, knew well enough the real motive that had brought them thither though she apparently had her own reasons for keeping silence on the point, as whatever she may have thought, she said nothing.

Lorimer skillfully avoided betraying the fact that they had watched her through the window, and had listened to her singing. And Thelma heard all the explanations patiently till Bosekop was mentioned, and then her fair face grew cold and stern.

"From whom did you hear of us there?" she inquired. "We do not mix with the people,—why should they speak of us?"

"The truth is," interposed Errington, resting his eyes with a sense of deep delight on the beautiful rounded figure and lovely features that were turned towards him, "I heard of you first through my pilot—one Valdemar Svensen."

"Ha, ha!" cried old Guldmar with some excitement, "there is a fellow who cannot hold his tongue! What have I said to thee, child? A bachelor is no better than a gossiping old woman. He that is always alone must talk, if it be only to woods and waves. It is the married men who know best how excellent it is to keep silence!"

They all laughed, though Thelma's eyes had a way of looking pensive even when she smiled.

"You would not blame poor Svensen because he is alone, father?" she said. "Is he not to be pitied? Surely it is a cruel fate to have none to love in all the wide world. Nothing can be more cruel!"

Guldmar surveyed her humorously. "Hear her!" he said. "She talks as if she knew all about such things; and if ever a child was ignorant of sorrow, surely it is my Thelma! Every flower and bird in the place loves her. Yes; I have thought sometimes the very sea loves her. It must; she is so much upon it. And as for her old father"—he laughed a little, though a suspicious moisture softened his keen eyes—"why, he doesn't love her at all. Ask her! She knows it."

Thelma rose quickly and kissed him. How deliciously those sweet lips pouted, thought Errington, and what an unreasonable and extraordinary grudge he seemed to bear towards the venerable bonde for accepting that kiss with so little apparent emotion!

"Hush, father!" she said. "These friends can see too plainly how much you spoil me. Tell me,"—and she turned with a sudden pretty imperiousness to Lorimer, who started at her voice as a racehorse starts at its rider's touch,—"what person in Bosekop spoke of us?"

Lorimer was rather at a loss, inasmuch as no one in the small town had actually spoken of them, and Mr. Dyceworthy's remarks concerning those who were "ejected with good reason from respectable society," might not, after all, have applied to the Guldmar family. Indeed, it now seemed an absurd and improbable supposition. Therefore he replied cautiously—

"The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, I think, has some knowledge of you. Is he not a friend of yours?"

These simple words had a most unexpected effect. Olaf Guldmar sprang up from his seat flaming with wrath. It was in vain that his daughter laid a restraining hand upon his arm. The name of the Lutheran divine had sufficed to put him in a towering passion, and he turned furiously upon the astonished Errington.

"Had I known you came from the devil, sir, you should have returned to him speedily, with hot words to hasten your departure! I would have split that glass to atoms before I would have drained it after you! The friends of a false heart are no friends for me,—the followers of a pretended sanctity find no welcome under my roof! Why not have told me at once that you came as spies, hounded on by the liar Dyceworthy? Why not have confessed it openly? .. . . and not have played the thief's trick on an old fool, who, for once, misled by your manly and upright bearing, consented to lay aside the rightful suspicions he at first entertained of your purpose? Shame on you, young men! shame!"

The words coursed impetuously from his lips; his face burned with indignation. He had broken away from his daughter's hold, while she, pale and very still, stood leaning one hand upon the table. His white hair was tossed back from his brow; his eyes flashed; his attitude though vengeful and threatening, was at the same time so bold and commanding that Lorimer caught himself lazily admiring the contour of his figure, and wondering how he would look in marble as an infuriated Viking.

One excellent thing in the dispositions of both Errington and Lorimer was that they never lost temper. Either they were too lazy or too well-bred. Undoubtedly they both considered it "bad form." This indifference stood them in good stead now. They showed no sign whatever of offense, though the old farmer's outbreak of wrath was so sudden and unlooked for, that they remained for a moment silent out of sheer surprise. Then rising with unruffled serenity, they took up their caps preparatory to departure. Errington's gentle, refined voice broke the silence.

"You are in error, Mr. Guldmar," he said in chilly but perfectly polite tones. "I regret you should be so hasty in your judgment of us. If you accepted us as 'men' when you first met us, I cannot imagine why you should now take us for spies. The two terms are by no means synonymous. I know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy beyond that he called upon me, and that I, as in duty bound, returned his call. I am ignorant of his character and disposition. I may add that I have no desire to be enlightened respecting them. I do not often take a dislike to anybody, but it so happens that I have done so in the case of Mr. Dyceworthy. I know Lorimer doesn't care for him, and I don't think my other two friends are particularly attached to him. I have nothing more to say, except that I fear we have outstayed our welcome. Permit us now to wish you good evening. And you,"—he hesitated, and turned with a low bow to Thelma, who had listened to his words with a gradually dawning brightness on her face—"you will, I trust, exonerate us from any intentional offense towards your father or yourself? Our visit has proved unlucky, but—"

Thelma interrupted him by laying her fair little hand on his arm with a wistful, detaining gesture, which, though seemingly familiar, was yet perfectly sweet and natural. The light touch thrilled his blood, and sent it coursing through his veins at more than customary speed.

"Ah, then, you also will be foolish!" she said, with a naive protecting air of superior dignity. "Do you not see my father is sorry? Have we all kissed the cup for nothing, or was the wine wasted? Not a drop was spilt; how then, if we are friends should we part in coldness? Father, it is you to be ashamed,—not these gentleman, who are strangers to the Altenfjord, and know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy, or an other person dwelling here. And when their vessel sails away again over the wide seas to their own shores, how will you have them think of you? As one whose heart was all kindness, and who helped to make their days pass pleasantly? or as one who, in unreasonable anger, forgot the duties of sworn hospitality?"

The bonde listened to her full, sweet, reproachful voice as a tough old lion might listen to the voice of its tamer, uncertain whether to yield or spring. He wiped his heated brow and stared around him shamefacedly. Finally, as though swallowing his pride with a gulp, he drew a long breath, took a couple of determined strides forward, and held out his hands, one to Errington and the other to Lorimer, by whom they were warmly grasped.

"There, my lads," he said rapidly. "I'm sorry I spoke! Forgive and forget! That is the worst of me—my blood is up in a minute, and old though I am, I'm not old enough yet to be patient. And when I hear the name of that sneak Dyceworthy—by the gates of Valhalla, I feel as if my own house would not hold me! No, no; don't go yet! Nearly ten? Well, no matter, the night is like the day here, you see—it doesn't matter when one goes to bed. Come and sit in the porch awhile; I shall get cool out there. Ah, Thelma, child! I see thee laughing at thy old father's temper! Never mind, never mind; is it not for thy sake after all?"

And, holding Errington by the arm, he led the way into the fine old porch, Lorimer following with rather a flushed face, for he, as he passed out of the room, had managed to pick up and secrete the neglected little bunch of daisies, before noticed as having fallen on the floor. He put them quickly in his breast pocket with a curious sense of satisfaction, though he had no intention of keeping them, and leaned idly against the clambering roses, watching Thelma, as she drew a low stool to her father's feet and sat there. A balmy wind blew in from the Fjord, and rustled mysteriously among the pines; the sky was flecked here and there with fleecy clouds, and a number of birds were singing in full chorus. Old Guldmar heaved a sigh of relief, as though his recent outburst of passion had done him good.

"I will tell you, Sir Philip," he said, ruffling his daughter's curls as he spoke,—"I will tell you why I detest the villian Dyceworthy. It is but fair you should know it. Now, Thelma!—why that push to my knee? You fear I may offend our friends again? Nay, I will take good care. And so, first of all, I ask you, what is your religion? Though I know you cannot be Lutherans."

Errington was somewhat taken aback by the question. He smiled.

"My dear sir," he replied at last; "to be frank with you, I really do not think I have any religion. If I had, I suppose I should call myself a Christian, though, judging from the behavior of Christians in general, I cannot be one of them after all,—for I belong to no sect, I go to no church, and I have never read a tract in my life. I have a profound reverence and admiration for the character and doctrine of Christ, and I believe if I had had the privilege of knowing and conversing with Him, I should not have deserted Him in extremity as his timorous disciples did. I believe in an all-wise Creator; so you see I am not an atheist. My mother was an Austrian and a Catholic, and I have a notion that, as a small child, I was brought up in that creed; but I'm afraid I don't know much about it now."

The bonde nodded gravely. "Thelma, here," he said, "is a Catholic, as her mother was—" he stopped abruptly, and a deep shadow of pain darkened his features. Thelma looked up,—her large blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and she pressed her father's hand between her own, as though in sympathy with some undeclared grief; then she looked at Errington with a sort of wistful appeal. Philip's heart leaped as he met that soft beseeching glance, which seemed to entreat his patience with the old man for her sake—he felt himself drawn into a bond of union with her thoughts, and in his innermost soul he swore as knightly a vow of chivalry and reverence for the fair maiden, who thus took him into her silent confidence, as though he were some gallant Crusader of old time, pledged to defend his lady's honor unto death. Olaf Guldmar, after a long and apparently sorrowful pause, resumed his conversation.

"Yes," he said, "Thelma is a Catholic, though here she has scarcely any opportunity for performing the duties of her religion. It is a pretty and a graceful creed,—well fitted for women. As for me, I am made of sterner stuff, and the maxims of that gentle creature, Christ, find no echo in my soul. But you, young sir," he added, turning suddenly on Lorimer, who was engaged in meditatively smoothing out on his palm one of the fallen rose-petals—"you have not spoken. What faith do you profess? It is no curiosity that prompts me to ask,—I only seek not to offend."

Lorimer laughed languidly. "Upon my life, Mr. Guldmar, you really ask too much of me. I haven't any faith at all; not a shred! It's been all knocked out of me. I tried to hold on to a last remaining bit of Christian rope in the universal ship-wreck, but that was torn out of my hands by a scientific professor, who ought to know what he is about, and—and—now I drift along anyhow!"

Guldmar smiled dubiously; but Thelma looked at the speaker with astonished, regretful eyes.

"I am sorry," she said simply. "You must be often unhappy."

Lorimer was not disconcerted, though her evident pity caused an unwanted flush on his face.

"Oh no," he said in answer to her, "I am not a miserable sort of fellow by any means. For instance, I'm not afraid of death,—lots of very religious people are horribly afraid of it, though they all the time declare it's the only path to heaven. They're not consistent at all. You see I believe in nothing,—I came from nothing,—I am nothing,—I shall be nothing. That being plain, I am all right."

Guldmar laughed. "You are an odd lad," he said good-humoredly. "You are in the morning of life; there are always mists in the morning as there are in the evening. In the light of your full manhood you will see these things differently. Your creed of Nothing provides no moral law,—no hold on the conscience, no restraint on the passions,—don't you see that?"

Lorimer smiled with a very winning and boyish candor. "You are exceedingly good, sir, to credit me with a conscience! I don't think I have one,—I'm sure I have no passions. I have always been too lazy to encourage them, and as for moral law,—I adhere to morality with the greatest strictness, because if a fellow is immoral, he ceases to be a gentleman. Now, as there are very few gentlemen nowadays, I fancy I'd like to be one as long as I can."

Errington here interposed. "You mustn't take him seriously. Mr. Guldmar," he said; "he's never serious himself, I'll give you his character in a few words. He belongs to no religious party, it's true,—but he's a first-rate fellow,—the best fellow I know!"

Lorimer glanced at him quietly with a gratified expression on his face. But he said nothing, for Thelma was regarding him with a most bewitching smile.

"Ah!" she said, shaking a reproachful finger at him, "you do love all nonsense, that I can see! You would make every person laugh, if you could,—is it not so?"

"Well, yes," admitted George, "I think I would! But it's a herculean task sometimes. If you had ever been to London, Miss Guldmar, you would understand how difficult it is to make people even smile,—and when they do, the smile is not a very natural one."

"Why?" she exclaimed. "Are they all so miserable?"

"They pretend to be, if they're not," said Lorimer; "it is the fashion there to find fault with everything and everybody."

"That is so," said Guldmar thoughtfully. "I visited London once and thought I was in hell. Nothing but rows of hard, hideously built houses, long streets, and dirty alleys, and the people had weary faces all, as though Nature had refused to bless them. A pitiful city,—doubly pitiful to the eyes of a man like myself, whose life has been passed among fjords and mountains such as these. Well, now, as neither of you are Lutherans,—in fact, as neither of you seem to know what you are," and he laughed, "I can be frank, and speak out as to my own belief. I am proud to say I have never deserted the faith of my fathers, the faith that makes a man's soul strong and fearless, and defiant of evil,—the faith that is supposed to be crushed out among us, but that is still alive and rooted in the hearts of many who can trace back their lineage to the ancient Vikings as I can,—yes!—rooted firm and fast,—and however much some of the more timorous feign to conceal it, in the tacit acceptance of another creed, there are those who can never shake it off, and who never desire to forsake it. I am one of these few. Shame must fall on the man who willfully deserts the faith of his warrior-ancestry! Sacred to me for ever be the names of Odin and Thor!"

He raised his hand aloft with a proud gesture, and his eyes flashed. Errington was interested, but not surprised: the old bonde's declaration of his creed seemed eminently fitted to his character. Lorimer's face brightened,—here was a novelty—a man, who in all the conflicting storms of modern opinion, sturdily clung to the traditions of his forefathers.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed eagerly, "I think the worship of Odin would suit me perfectly! It's a rousing, fighting sort of religion,—I'm positive it would make a man of me. Will you initiate me into the mysteries, Mr. Guldmar? There's a fellow in London who writes poetry on Indian subjects, and who, it is said, thinks Buddhism might satisfy his pious yearnings,—but I think Odin would be a personage to command more respect than Buddha,—at any rate, I should like to try him. Will you give me a chance?"

Olaf Guldmar smiled gravely, and rising from his seat, pointed to the western sky.

"See yonder threads of filmy white," he said, "that stretch across the wide expanse of blue! They are the lingering, fading marks of light clouds,—and even while we watch them, they shall pass and be no more. Such is the emblem of your life, young man—you that would, for an idle jest or pastime, presume to search into the mysteries of Odin! For you they are not,—your spirit is not of the stern mould that waits for death as gladly as the bridegroom waits for the bride! The Christian heaven is an abode for girls and babes,— Valhalla is the place for men! I tell you, my creed is as divine in its origin as any that ever existed on the earth! The Rainbow Bridge is a fairer pathway from death to life than the doleful Cross,—and better far the dark summoning eyes of a beauteous Valkyrie, than the grinning skull and cross-bones, the Christian emblem of mortality. Thelma thinks,—and her mother before her thought also,—that different as my way of belief is to the accepted new creeds of to- day, it will be all right with me in the next world—that I shall have as good a place in heaven as any Christian. It may be so,—I care not! But see you,—the key-note of all the civilization of to-day is discontent, while I,—thanks to the gods of my fathers, am happy, and desire nothing that I have not."

He paused and seemed absorbed. The young men watched his fine inspired features with lively interest. Thelma's head was turned away from them so that her face was hidden. By-and-by he resumed in quieter tones—

"Now, my lads, you know what we are—both of us accursed in the opinion of the Lutheran community. My child belongs to the so-called idolatrous Church of Rome. I am one of the very last of the 'heathen barbarians,'"—and the old fellow smiled sarcastically, "though, truth to tell, for a barbarian, I am not such a fool as some folks would have you think. If the snuffling Dyceworthy and I competed at a spelling examination, I'm pretty sure 'tis I would have the prize! But, as I said,—you know us,—and if our ways are likely to offend you, then let us part good friends before the swords are fairly drawn."

"No sword will be drawn on my side, I assure you, sir," said Errington, advancing and laying one hand on the bonde's shoulder. "I hope you will believe me when I say I shall esteem it an honor and a privilege to know more of you."

"And though you won't accept me as a servant of Odin," added Lorimer, "you really cannot prevent me from trying to make myself agreeable to you. I warn you, Mr. Guldmar, I shall visit you pretty frequently! Such men as you are not often met with."

Olaf Guldmar looked surprised. "You really mean it?" he said. "Nothing that I have told you affects you? You still seek our friendship?"

They both earnestly assured him that they did, and as they spoke Thelma rose from her low seat and faced them with a bright smile.

"Do you know," she said, "that you are the first people who, on visiting us once, have ever cared to come again? Ah, you look surprised, but it is so, is it not, father?"

Guldmar nodded a grave assent.

"Yes," she continued demurely, counting on her little white fingers, "we are three things—first, we are accursed; secondly, we have the evil eye; thirdly, we are not respectable!"

And she broke into a peal of laughter, ringing and sweet as a chime of bells. The young men joined her in it; and, still with an amused expression on her lovely face, leaning her head back against a cluster of pale roses, she went on—

"My father dislikes Mr. Dyceworthy so much, because he wants to—to— oh, what is it they do to savages, father? Yes, I know,—to convert us,—to make us Lutherans. And when he finds it all no use, he is angry; and, though he is so religious, if he hears any one telling some untruth about us in Bosekop, he will add another thing equally untrue, and so it grows and grows, and—why! what is the matter with you?" she exclaimed in surprise as Errington scowled and clenched his fist in a peculiarly threatening manner.

"I should like to knock him down!" he said briefly under his breath.

Old Guldmar laughed and looked at the young baronet approvingly.

"Who knows, who knows!" he said cheerfully. "You may do it some day! It will be a good deed! I will do it myself if he troubles me much more. And now let us make some arrangement with you. When will you come and see, us again?"

"You must visit me first," said Sir Philip quickly. "If you and your daughter will honor me with your company to-morrow, I shall be proud and pleased. Consider the yacht at your service."

Thelma, resting among the roses, looked across at him with serious, questioning eyes—eyes that seemed to be asking his intentions towards both her and her father.

Guldmar accepted the invitation at once, and, the hour for their visit next day being fixed and agreed upon, the young men began to take their leave. As Errington clasped Thelma's hand in farewell, he made a bold venture. He touched a rose that hung just above her head almost dropping on her hair.

"May I have it?" he asked in a low tone.

Their eyes met. The girl flushed deeply, and then grew pale. She broke off the flower and gave it to him,—then turned to Lorimer to say good-bye. They left her then, standing under the porch, shading her brow with one hand from the glittering sunlight, as she watched them descending the winding path to the shore, accompanied by her lather, who hospitably insisted on seeing them into their boat. They looked back once or twice, always to see the slender, tall white figure standing there like an angel resting in a bower of roses, with the sunshine flashing on a golden crown of hair. At the last in the pathway Philip raised his hat and waved it, but whether she condescended to wave her hand in answer he could not see.

Left alone, she sighed, and went slowly into the house to resume her spinning. Hearing the whirr of the wheel, the servant Britta entered.

"You are not going in the boat, Froken?" she asked in a tone of mingled deference and affection.

Thelma looked up, smiled faintly, and shook her head in the negative.

"It is late, Britta, and I am tired."

And the deep blue eyes had an intense dreamy light within them as they wandered from the wheel to the wide-open window, and rested on the majestic darkness of the overshadowing, solemn pines.

CHAPTER VII.


    "In mezzo del mio core c' e una spina;
     Non c' e barbier che la possa levare,—
     Solo il mio amore colla sua manina"
 
                              Rime Popolari

Errington and Lorimer pulled away across the Fjord in a silence that lasted for many minutes. Old Guldmar stood on the edge of his little pier to watch them out of sight. So, till their boat turned the sharp corner of the protecting rock, that hid the landing-place from view, they saw his picturesque figure and gleaming silvery hair outlined clearly against the background of the sky—a sky now tenderly flushed with pink like the inside of a delicate shell. When they could no longer perceive him they still rowed on speaking no word,—the measured, musical plash of the oars through the smooth, dark olive-green water alone breaking the stillness around them. There was a curious sort of hushed breathlessness in the air; fantastic, dream-like lights and shadows played on the little wrinkling waves; sudden flushes of crimson came and went in the western horizon, and over the high summits of the surrounding mountains mysterious shapes, formed of purple and grey mist, rose up and crept softly downwards, winding in and out deep valleys and dark ravines, like wandering spirits sent on some secret and sorrowful errand. After a while Errington said almost vexedly—

"Are you struck dumb, George? Haven't you a word to say to a fellow?"

"Just what I was about to ask YOU," replied Lorimer carelessly; "and I was also going to remark that we hadn't seen your mad friend up at the Guldmar residence."

"No. Yet I can't help thinking he has something to do with them, all the same," returned Errington meditatively. "I tell you, he swore at me by some old Norwegian infernal place or other. I dare say he's an Odin worshipper, too. But never mind him. What do you think of HER?"

Lorimer turned lazily round in the boat, so that he faced his companion.

"Well, old fellow, if you ask me frankly, I think she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw, or, for that matter, ever heard of. And I am an impartial critic—perfectly impartial."

And, resting on his oar, he dipped the blade musingly in and out of the water, watching the bright drops fall with an oil-like smoothness as they trickled from the polished wood and glittered in the late sunshine like vari-colored jewels. Then he glanced curiously at Philip, who sat silent, but whose face was very grave and earnest,—even noble, with that shade of profound thought upon it. He looked like one who had suddenly accepted a high trust, in which there was not only pride, but tenderness. Lorimer shook himself together, as he himself would have expressed it, and touched his friend's arm half-playfully.

"You've met the king's daughter of Norroway after all, Phil;" and his light accents had a touch of sadness in them; "and you'll have to bring her home, as the old song says. I believe the 'eligible' is caught at last. The 'woman' of the piece has turned up, and your chum must play second fiddle—eh, old boy?"

Errington flushed hotly, but caught Lorimer's hand and pressed it with tremendous fervor.

"By Jove, I'll wring it off your wrist if you talk in that fashion, George!" he said, with a laugh. "You'll always be the same to me, and you know it. I tell you," and he pulled his moustache doubtfully, "I don't know quite what's the matter with me. That girl fascinates me! I feel a fool in her presence. Is that a sign of being in love I wonder?"

"Certainly not!" returned George promptly; "for _I_ feel a fool in her presence, and I'm not in love."

"How do you know that?" And Errington glanced at him keenly and inquiringly.

"How do I know? Come, I like that! Have I studied myself all these years for nothing? Look here,"—and he carefully drew out the little withering bunch of daisies he had purloined—"these are for you. I knew you wanted them, though you hadn't the impudence to pick them up, and I had. I thought you might like to put them under your pillow, and all that sort of thing, because if one is resolved to become love-lunatic, one may as well do the thing properly out and out,—I hate all half-measures. Now, if the remotest thrill of sentiment were in me, you can understand, I hope, that wild horses would not have torn this adorable posy from my possession! I should have kept it, and you would never have known of it," and he laughed softly. "Take it, old fellow! You're rich now, with the rose she gave you besides. What is all your wealth compared with the sacred preciousness of such blossoms! There, don't look so awfully estactic, or I shall be called upon to ridicule you in the interests of common sense. So you're in love with the girl at once, and have done with it. Don't beat about the bush!"

"I'm not sure about it," said Philip, taking the daisies gratefully, however, and pressing them in his pocket-book. "I don't believe in love at first sight!"

"I do," returned Lorimer decidedly. "Love is electricity. Two telegrams are enough to settle the business,—one from the eyes of the man, the other from those of the woman. You and Miss Guldmar must have exchanged a dozen such messages at least."

"And you?" inquired Errington persistently. "You had the same chance as myself."

George shrugged his shoulders. "My dear boy, there are no wires of communication between the Sun-angel and myself; nothing but a blank, innocent landscape, over which perhaps some day, the mild lustre of friendship may beam. The girl is beautiful—extraordinarily so; but I'm not a 'man o' wax,' as Juliet's gabbling old nurse says—not in the least impressionable."

And forthwith he resumed his oar, saying briskly as he did so—

"Phil, do you know those other fellows must be swearing at us pretty forcibly for leaving them so long with Dyceworthy. We've been away two hours!"

"Not possible!" cried Errington, amazed, and wielding his oar vigorously. "They'll think me horribly rude. By Jove, they must be bored to death!"

And, stimulated by the thought of the penance their friends were enduring, they sent the boat spinning swiftly through the water, and rowed as though they were trying for a race, when they were suddenly pulled up by a loud "Halloo!" and the sight of another boat coming slowly out from Bosekop, wherein two individuals were standing up, gesticulating violently.

"There they are!" exclaimed Lorimer. "I say, Phil, they've hired a special tub, and are coming out to us."

So it proved. Duprez and Macfarlane had grown tired of waiting for their truant companions, and had taken the first clumsy wherry that presented itself, rowed by an even clumsier Norwegian boatman, whom they had been compelled to engage also, as he would not let his ugly punt out of his sight, for fear some harm might chance to befall it. Thus attended, they were on their way back to the yacht. With a few long, elegant strokes, Errington and Lorimer soon brought their boat alongside, and their friends gladly jumped into it, delighted to be free of the company of the wooden-faced mariner they had so reluctantly hired, and who now, on receiving his fee, paddled awkwardly away in his ill-constructed craft, without either a word of thanks or salutation. Errington began to apologize at once for his long absence, giving as a reason for it, the necessity he found himself under of making a call on some persons of importance in the neighborhood, whom he had, till now, forgotten.

"My good Phil-eep!" cried Duprez, in his cheery sing song accent, "why apologize? We have amused ourselves! Our dear Sandy has a vein of humor that is astonishing! We have not wasted our time. No! We have made Mr. Dyceworthy our slave; we have conquered him; we have abased him! He is what we please,—he is for all gods or for no god,—just as we pull the string! In plain words, mon cher, that amiable religious is drunk!"

"Drunk!" cried Errington and Lorimer together. "Jove! you don't mean it?"

Macfarlane looked up with a twinkle of satirical humor in his deep- set grey eyes.

"Ye see," he said seriously, "the Lacrima, or Papist wine as he calls it, was strong—we got him to take a good dose o't—a vera feir dose indeed. Then, doun he sat, an' fell to convairsing vera pheelosophically o'mony things,—it wad hae done ye gude to hear him,—he was fair lost in the mazes o' his metapheesics, for twa flies took a bit saunter through the pleasant dewy lanes o' his forehead, an' he never raised a finger to send them awa' aboot their beeziness. Then I thoet I wad try him wi' the whusky—I had ma pocket flask wi' me—an' O mon! he was sairly glad and gratefu' for the first snack o't! He said it was deevilish fine stuff, an' so he took ane drappikie, an' anither drappikie, and yet anither drappikie,"—Sandy's accent got more and more pronounced as he went on—"an' after a bit, his heed dropt doun, an' he took a wee snoozle of a minute or twa,—then he woke up in a' his strength an' just grappit the flask in his twa hands an' took the hale o't off at a grand, rousin' gulp! Ma certes! after it ye shuld ha' seen him laughin' like a feckless fule, an' rubbin' an' rubbin' his heed, till his hair was like the straw kicked roond by a mad coo!"

Lorimer lay back in the stern of the boat and laughed uproariously at this extraordinary picture, as did the others.

"But that is not all," said Duprez, with delighted mischief sparkling in his wicked little dark eyes; "the dear religious opened his heart to us. He spoke thickly, but we could understand him. He was very impressive! He is quite of my opinion. He says all religion is nonsense, fable, imposture,—Man is the only god, Woman his creature and subject. Again,—man and woman conjoined, make up divinity, necessity, law. He was quite clear on that point. Why did he preach what he did not believe, we asked? He almost wept! He replied that the children of this world liked fairy-stories and he was paid to tell them. It was his bread and butter,—would we wish him to have no bread and butter? We assured him so cruel a thought had no place in our hearts! Then he is amorous—yes! the good fat man is amorous! He would have become a priest, but on close examination of the confessionals he saw there was no possibility of seeing, much less kissing a lady penitent through the grating. So he gave up that idea! In his form of faith he CAN kiss, he says,—he DOES kiss!—always a holy kiss, of course! He is so ingenuous,—so delightfully frank, it is quite charming!"

They laughed again. Sir Philip looked somewhat disgusted.

"What an old brute he must be!" he said. "Somebody ought to kick him—a holy kick, of course, and therefore more intense and forcible than other kicks."

"You begin, Phil," laughed Lorimer, "and we'll all follow suit. He'll be like that Indian in 'Vathek' who rolled himself into a ball; no one could resist kicking as long as the ball bounded before them,—we, similarly, shall not be able to resist, if Dyceworthy's fat person is once left at our mercy."

"That was a grand bit he told us, Errington," resumed Macfarlane. "Ye should ha' heard him talk aboot his love-affair!. . . the saft jelly of a man that he is, to be making up to ony woman."

At that moment they ran alongside of the Eulalie and threw up their oars.

"Stop a bit," said Errington. "Tell us the rest on board."

The ladder was lowered; they mounted it, and their boat was hauled up to its place.

"Go on!" said Lorimer, throwing himself lazily into a deck arm-chair and lighting a cigar, while the others leaned against the yacht rails and followed his example. "Go on, Sandy—this is fun! Dyceworthy's amours must be amusing. I suppose he's after that ugly wooden block of a woman we saw at his house who is so zealous for the 'true gospel'?"

"Not a bit of it," replied Sandy, with immense gravity. "The auld Silenus has better taste. He says there's a young lass running after him, fit to break her heart aboot him,—puir thing, she must have vera little choice o' men! He hasna quite made up his mind, though he admeets she's as fine a lass as ony man need require. He's sorely afraid she has set herself to catch him, as he says she's an eye like a warlock for a really strong good-looking fellow like himself," and Macfarlane chuckled audibly. "Maybe he'll take pity on her, maybe he wont; the misguided lassie will be sairly teazed by him from a' he tauld us in his cups. He gave us her name,—the oddest in a'the warld for sure,—I canna just remember it."

"I can," said Duprez glibly. "It struck me as quaint and pretty— Thelma Guldmar."

Errington started so violently, and flushed so deeply, that Lorimer was afraid of some rash outbreak of wrath on his part. But he restrained himself by a strong effort. He merely took his cigar from his mouth and puffed a light cloud of smoke into the air before replying, then he said coldly—

"I should say Mr. Dyceworthy, besides being a drunkard, is a most consummate liar. It so happens that the Guldmars are the very people I have just visited,—highly superior in every way to anybody we have yet met in Norway. In fact, Mr. and Miss Guldmar will come on board to-morrow. I have invited them to dine with us; you will then be able to judge for yourselves whether the young lady is at all of the description Mr. Dyceworthy gives of her."

Duprez and Macfarlane exchanged astonished looks.

"Are ye quite sure," the latter ventured to remark cautiously, "that ye're prudent in what ye have done? Remember ye have asked no pairson at a' to dine with ye as yet,—it's a vera sudden an' exceptional freak o' hospitality."

Errington smoked on peacefully and made no answer. Duprez hummed a verse of a French chansonnette under his breath and smiled. Lorimer glanced at him with a lazy amusement.

"Unburden yourself, Pierre, for heaven's sake!" he said. "Your mind is as uncomfortable as a loaded camel. Let it lie down, while you take off its packages, one by one, and reveal their contents. In short, what's up?"

Duprez made a rapid, expressive gesture with his hands.

"Mon cher, I fear to displease Phil-eep! He has invited these people; they are coming,—bien! there is no more to say."

"I disagree with ye," interposed Macfarlane "I think Errington should hear what WE ha' heard; it's fair an' just to a mon that he should understand what sort o' folk are gaun to pairtake wi' him at his table. Ye see, Errington, ye should ha' thought a wee, before inviting pairsons o' unsettled an' dootful chairacter—"

"Who says they are?" demanded Errington half-angrily. "The drunken Dyceworthy?"

"He was no sae drunk at the time he tauld us." persisted Macfarlane in his most obstinate, most dictatorial manner. "Ye see, it's just this way—"

"Ah, pardon!" interrupted Duprez briskly. "Our dear Sandy is an excellent talker, hut he is a little slow. Thus it is, mon cher Errington. This gentleman named Guldmar had a most lovely wife—a mysterious lady, with an evident secret. The beautiful one was never seen in the church or in any town or village; she was met sometimes on hills, by rivers, in valleys, carrying her child in her arms. The people grew afraid of her; but, now, see what happens! Suddenly, she appears no more; some one ventures to ask this Monsieur Guldmar, 'What has become of Madame?' His answer is brief. 'She is dead!' Satisfactory so far, yet not quite; for, Madame being dead, then what has become of the corpse of Madame? It was never seen,—no coffin was ever ordered,—and apparently it was never buried! Bien! What follows? The good people of Bosekop draw the only conclusion possible—Monsieur Guldmar, who is said to have a terrific temper, killed Madame and made away with her body. Voila!"

And Duprez waved his hand with an air of entire satisfaction.

Errington's brow grew sombre. "This is the story, is it?" he asked at last.

"It is enough, is it not?" laughed Duprez. "But, after all, what matter? It will be novel to dine with a mur—"

"Stop!" said Philip fiercely, with so much authority that the sparkling Pierre was startled. "Call no man by such a name till you know he deserves it. If Guldmar was suspected, as you say, why didn't somebody arrest him on the charge?"

"Because, ye see," replied Macfarlane, "there was not sufficient proof to warrant such a proceeding. Moreover, the actual meenister of the parish declared it was a' richt, an' said this Guldmar was a mon o' vera queer notions, an' maybe, had buried his wife wi' certain ceremonies peculiar to himself—What's wrong wi' ye now?"

For a light had flashed on Errington's mind, and with the quick comprehension it gave him, his countenance cleared. He laughed.

"That's very likely," he said; "Mr. Guldmar is a character. He follows the faith of Odin, and not even Dyceworthy can convert him to Christianity."

Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity.

"Mon!" he exclaimed, "ye never mean to say there's an actual puir human creature that in this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, is so far misguidit as to worship the fearfu' gods o' the Scandinavian meethology?"

"Ah!" yawned Lorimer, "you may wonder away, Sandy, but it's true enough! Old Guldmar is an Odinite. In this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, when Christians amuse themselves by despising and condemning each other, and thus upsetting all the precepts of the Master they profess to follow, there is actually a man who sticks to the traditions of his ancestors. Odd, isn't it? In this delightful, intellectual age, when more than half of us are discontented with life and yet don't want to die, there is a fine old gentleman, living beyond the Arctic circle, who is perfectly satisfied with his existence—not only that, he thinks death the greatest glory that can befall him. Comfortable state of things altogether! I'm half inclined to be an Odinite too."

Sandy still remained lost in astonishment. "Then ye don't believe that he made awa' wi' his wife?" he inquired slowly.

"Not in the least!" returned Lorimer decidedly; "neither will you, to-morrow, when you see him. He's a great deal better up in literature than you are, my boy, I'd swear, judging from the books he has. And when he mentioned his wife, as he did once, you could see in his face he had never done HER any harm. Besides, his daughter—"

"Ah! but I forgot," interposed Duprez again. "The daughter, Thelma, was the child the mysteriously vanished lady carried in her arms, wandering with it all about the woods and hills. After her disappearance, another thing extraordinary happens. The child also disappears, and Monsieur Guldmar lives alone, avoided carefully by every respectable person. Suddenly the child returns, grown to be nearly a woman—and they say, lovely to an almost impossible extreme. She lives with her father. She, like her strange mother, never enters a church, town, or village—nowhere, in fact, where persons are in any numbers. Three years ago, it appears, she vanished again, but came back at the end of ten months, lovelier than ever. Since then she has remained quiet—composed—but always apart,—she may disappear at any moment. Droll, is it not, Errington? and the reputation she has is natural!"

"Pray state it," said Philip, with freezing coldness. "The reputation of a woman is nothing nowadays. Fair game—go on!"

But his face was pale, and his eyes blazed dangerously. Almost unconsciously his hand toyed with the rose Thelma had given him, that still ornamented his button-hole.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Duprez in amazement. "But look not at me like that! It seems to displease you, to put you en fureur, what I say! It is not my story,—it is not I,—I know not Mademoiselle Guldmar. But as her beauty is considered superhuman, they say it is the devil who is her parfumeur, her coiffeur, and who sees after her complexion; in brief, she is thought to be a witch in full practice, dangerous to life and limb."

Errington laughed loudly, he was so much relieved.

"Is that all?" he said with light contempt. "By Jove! what a pack of fools there must be about here,—ugly fools too, if they think beauty is a sign of witchcraft. I wonder Dyceworthy isn't scared out of his skin if he positively thinks the so-called witch is setting her cap at him."

"Ah, but he means to convairt her," said Macfarlane seriously. "To draw the evil oot o' her, as it were. He said he wad do't by fair means or foul."

Something in these latter words struck Lorimer, for, raising himself in his seat, he asked, "Surely Mr. Dyceworthy, with all his stupidity, doesn't carry it so far as to believe in witchcraft?"

"Oh, indeed he does," exclaimed Duprez; "he believes in it a la lettre! He has Bible authority for his belief. He is very firm— firmest when drunk!" And he laughed gaily.

Errington muttered something not very flattering to Mr. Dyceworthy's intelligence, which escaped the hearing of his friends; then he said—

"Come along, all of you, down into the saloon. We want something to eat. Let the Guldmars alone; I'm not a bit sorry I've asked them to come to-morrow. I believe you'll all like them immensely."

They all descended the stair-way leading to the lower part of the yacht, and Macfarlane asked as he followed his host—

"Is the lass vera bonnie did ye say?"

"Bonnie's not the word for it this time," said Lorimer, coolly answering instead of Errington. "Miss Guldmar is a magnificent woman. You never saw such a one, Sandy, my boy; she'll make you sing small with one look; she'll wither you up into a kippered herring! And as for you, Duprez," and he regarded the little Frenchman critically, "let me see,—you may possibly reach up to her shoulder,—certainly not beyond it."

"Pas possible!" cried Duprez. "Mademoiselle is a giantess."

"She needn't be a giantess to overtop you, mon ami," laughed Lorimer with a lazy shrug. "By Jove, I AM sleepy, Errington, old boy; are we never going to bed? It's no good waiting till it's dark here, you know."

"Have something first," said Sir Philip, seating himself at the saloon table, where his steward had laid out a tasty cold collation. "We've had a good deal of climbing about and rowing; it's taken it out of us a little."

Thus hospitably adjured, they took their places, and managed to dispose of an excellent supper. The meal concluded, Duprez helped himself to a tiny liqueur glass of Chartreuse, as a wind-up to the exertions of the day, a mild luxury in which the others joined him, with the exception of Macfarlane, who was wont to declare that a "mon without his whusky was nae mon at a'," and who, therefore, persisted in burning up his interior mechanism with alcohol in spite of the doctrines of hygiene, and was now absorbed in the work of mixing his lemon, sugar, hot water, and poison—his usual preparation for a night's rest.

Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in abstracted silence. Rallied on this morose humor, he rose, shook himself like a retriever, yawned, and sauntered to the piano that occupied a dim corner of the saloon, and began to play with that delicate, subtle touch, which, though it does not always mark the brilliant pianist, distinguishes the true lover of music, to whose ears a rough thump on the instrument, or a false note would be most exquisite agony. Lorimer had no pretense to musical talent; asked, he confessed he could "strum a little," and he seemed to see the evident wonder and admiration he awakened in the minds of many to whom such "strumming" as his was infinitely more delightful than more practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed undecided,—he commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin's, then broke suddenly off, and wandered into another strain, wild, pleading, pitiful, and passionate,—a melody so weird and dreamy that even the stolid Macfarlane paused in his toddy-sipping, and Duprez looked round in some wonderment.

"Comme c'est beau, ca!" he murmured.

Errington said nothing; he recognized the tune as that which Thelma had sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold bright eyes grew pensive and soft, as the picture of the fair face and form rose up again before his mind. Absorbed in a reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased playing, and said lightly—

"By-bye, boys! I'm off to bed! Phil, don't wake me so abominably early as you did this morning. If you do, friendship can hold out no longer—we must part!"

"All right!" laughed Errington good-humoredly, watching his friend as he sauntered out of the saloon; then seeing Duprez and Macfarlane rise from the table, he added courteously, "Don't hurry away on Lorimer's account, you two. I'm not in the least sleepy,—I'll sit up with you to any hour."

"It is droll to go to bed in broad daylight," said Duprez. "But it must be done. Cher Philippe, your eyes are heavy. 'To bed, to bed,' as the excellent Madame Macbeth says. Ah! quelle femme! What an exciting wife she was for a man? Gome, let us follow our dear Lorimer,—his music was delicious. Good night or good morning?. . . I know not which it is in this strange land where the sun shines always! It is confusing!"

They shook hands and separated. Errington, however, unable to compose his mind to rest, went into his cabin merely to come out of it again and betake himself to the deck, where he decided to walk up and down till he felt sleepy. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts for awhile—to try and resolve the meaning of this strange new emotion that possessed him,—a feeling that was half pleasing, half painful, and that certainly moved him to a sort of shame. A man, if he be strong and healthy, is always more or less ashamed when Love, with a single effort, proves him to be weaker than a blade of grass swaying in the wind, What! all his dignity, all his resoluteness, all his authority swept down by the light touch of a mere willow wand? for the very sake of his own manhood and self- respect, he cannot help but be ashamed! It is as though a little nude, laughing child mocked at a lion's strength, and made him a helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy chain. So the god Eros begins his battles, which end in perpetual victory,—first fear and shame,- -then desire and passion,—then conquest and possession. And afterwards? ah!. . . afterwards the pagan deity is powerless,—a higher God, a grander force, a nobler creed must carry Love to its supreme and best fulfillment.

CHAPTER VIII.


    "Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne
     M'a rendu fou!"
                                         VICTOR HUGO.

It was half an hour past midnight. Sir Philip was left in absolute solitude to enjoy his meditative stroll on deck, for the full radiance of light that streamed over the sea and land was too clear and brilliant to necessitate the attendance of any of the sailors for the purpose of guarding the Eulalie. She was safely anchored and distinctly visible to all boats or fishing craft crossing the Fjord, so that unless a sudden gale should blow, which did not seem probable in the present state of the weather, there was nothing for the men to do that need deprive them of their lawful repose. Errington paced up and down slowly, his yachting shoes making no noise, even as they left no scratch on the spotless white deck, that shone in the night sunshine like polished silver. The Fjord was very calm,—on one side it gleamed like a pool of golden oil in which the outline of the Eulalie was precisely traced, her delicate masts and spars and drooping flag being drawn in black lines on the yellow water as though with a finely pointed pencil. There was a curious light in the western sky; a thick bank of clouds, dusky brown in color, were swept together and piled one above the other in mountainous ridges, that rose up perpendicularly from the very edge of the sea-line, while over their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a giant's eye, looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through the sullen smoke-like masses, tinging them with metallic green and copper hues as brilliant and shifting as the bristling points of lifted spears. Away to the south, a solitary wreath of purple vapor floated slowly as though lost from some great mountain height; and through its faint, half disguising veil the pale moon peered sorrowfully, like a dying prisoner lamenting joy long past, but unforgotten.

A solemn silence reigned; and Errington, watching sea and sky, grew more and more absorbed and serious. The scornful words of the proud old Olaf Guldmar rankled in his mind and stung him. "An idle trifler with time—an aimless wanderer!" Bitter, but, after all, true! He looked back on his life with a feeling kin to contempt. What had he done that was at all worth doing? He had seen to the proper management of his estates,—well! any one with a grain of self- respect and love of independence would do the same. He had travelled and amused himself,—he had studied languages and literature,—he had made many friends; but after all said and done, the bonde's cutting observations had described him correctly enough. The do- nothing, care-nothing tendency, common to the very wealthy in this age, had crept upon him unconsciously; the easy, cool, indifferent nonchalance common to men of his class and breeding was habitual with him, and he had never thought it worth while to exert his dormant abilities. Why then, should he now begin to think it was time to reform all this,—to rouse himself to an effort,—to gain for himself some honor, some distinction, some renown that should mark him out as different to other men? why was he suddenly seized with an insatiate desire to be something more than a mere "mushroom knight, a fungus of nobility"—why? if not to make himself worthy of—ah! There he had struck a suggestive key-note! Worthy of what? of whom? There was no one in all the world, excepting perhaps Lorimer, who cared what became of Sir Philip Errington, Baronet, in the future, so long as he would, for the present, entertain and feast his numerous acquaintances and give them all the advantages, social and political, his wealth could so easily obtain. Then why, in the name of well-bred indolence, should he muse with such persistent gloom, on his general unworthiness at this particular moment? Was it because this Norwegian maiden's grand blue eyes had met his with such beautiful trust and candor?

He had known many women, queens of society, titled beauties, brilliant actresses, sirens of the world with all their witcheries in full play, and he had never lost his self-possession or his heart; with the loveliest of them he had always felt himself master of the situation, knowing that, in their opinion he was always "a catch," "an eligible," and, therefore, well worth winning. Now, for the first time, he became aware of his utter insignificance,—this tall, fair goddess knew none of the social slang—and her fair, pure face, the mirror of a fair, pure soul, showed that the "eligibility" of a man from a pecuniary point of view was a consideration that would never present itself to her mind. What she would look at would be the man himself,—not his pocket. And, studied from such an exceptional height,—a height seldom climbed by modern marrying women,—Philip felt himself unworthy. It was a good sign; there are great hopes of any man who is honestly dissatisfied with himself. Folding his arms, he leaned idly on the deck-rails, and looked gravely and musingly down into the motionless water where the varied lines of the sky were clearly mirrored,—when a slight creaking, cracking sound was heard, as of some obstacle grazing against or bumping the side of the yacht. He looked, and saw, to his surprise, a small rowing boat close under the gunwale, so close indeed that the slow motion of the tide heaved it every now and then into a jerky collision with the lower framework of the Eulalie—a circumstance which explained the sound which had attracted his attention. The boat was not unoccupied—there was some one in it lying straight across the seats, with face turned upwards to the sky—and, walking noiselessly to a better post of observation, Errington's heart beat with some excitement as he recognized the long, fair, unkempt locks, and eccentric attire of the strange personage who had confronted him in the cave—the crazy little man who had called himself "Sigurd." There he was, beyond a doubt, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. Asleep or dead? He might have been the latter,—his thin face was so pale and drawn,—his lips were so set and colorless. Errington, astonished to see him there, called softly—

"Sigurd! Sigurd!" There was no answer; Sigurd's form seemed inanimate—his eyes remained fast shut.

"Is he in a trance?" thought Sir Philip wonderingly; "or has he fainted from some physical exhaustion?"

He called again, but again received no reply. He now observed in the stem of the boat a large bunch of pansies, dark as velvet, and evidently freshly gathered,—proving that Sigurd had been wandering in the deep valleys and on the sloping sides of the hills, where these flowers may be frequently found in Norway during the summer. He began to feel rather uncomfortable, as he watched that straight stiff figure in the boat, and was just about to swing down the companion-ladder for the purpose of closer inspection, when a glorious burst of light streamed radiantly over the Fjord,—the sun conquered the masses of dark cloud that had striven to conceal his beauty, and now,—like a warrior clad in golden armor, surmounted and trod down his enemies, shining forth in all his splendor. With that rush of brilliant effulgence, the apparently lifeless Sigurd stirred,—he opened his eyes, and as they were turned upwards, he naturally, from his close vicinity to the side of the Eulalie, met Errington's gaze fixed inquiringly and somewhat anxiously upon him. He sprang up with such sudden and fierce haste that his frail boat rocked dangerously and Philip involuntarily cried out—

"Take care!"

Sigurd stood upright in his swaying skiff and laughed scornfully.

"Take care!" he echoed derisively. "It is you who should take care! You,—poor miserable moth on the edge of a mad storm! It is you to fear—not I! See how the light rains over the broad sky. All for me! Yes, all the light, all the glory for me; all the darkness, all the shame for you!"

Errington listened to these ravings with an air of patience and pitying gentleness, then he said with perfect coolness—

"You are quite right, Sigurd! You are always right, I am sure. Come up here and see me; I won't hurt you! Come along!"

The friendly tone and gentle manner appeared to soothe the unhappy dwarf, for he stared doubtfully, then smiled,—and finally, as though acting under a spell, he took up an oar and propelled himself skillfully enough to the gangway, where Errington let down the ladder and with his own hand assisted his visitor to mount, not forgetting to fasten the boat safely to the steps as he did so. Once on deck, Sigurd gazed about him perplexedly. He had brought his bunch of pansies with him, and he fingered their soft leaves thoughtfully. Suddenly his eyes flashed.

"You are alone here?" he asked abruptly.

Fearing to scare his strange guest by the mention of his companions, Errington answered simply—"Yes, quite alone just now, Sigurd."

Sigurd took a step closer towards him. "Are you not afraid?" he said in an awe-struck, solemn voice.

Sir Philip smiled. "I never was afraid of anything in my life!" he answered.

The dwarf eyed him keenly. "You are not afraid," he went on, "that I shall kill you?"

"Not in the least," returned Errington calmly. "You would not do anything so foolish, my friend."

Sigurd laughed. "Ha ha! You call me 'friend.' You think that word a safeguard! I tell you, no! There are no friends now; the world is a great field of battle,—each man fights the other. There is no peace,—none anywhere! The wind fights with the forests; you can hear them slashing and slaying all night long—when it IS night—the long, long night! The sun fights with the sky, the light with the dark, and life with death. It is all a bitter quarrel; none are satisfied, none shall know friendship any more; it is too late! We cannot be friends!"

"Well, have it your own way," said Philip good-naturedly, wishing that Lorimer were awake to interview this strange specimen of human wit gone astray; "we'll fight if you like. Anything to please you!"

"We ARE fighting," said Sigurd with intense passion in his voice. "You may not know it; but I know it! I have felt the thrust of your sword; it has crossed mine. Stay!" and his eyes grew vague and dreamy. "Why was I sent to seek you out—let me think—let me think!"

And he seated himself forlornly on one of the deck chairs and seemed painfully endeavoring to put his scattered ideas in order. Errington studied him with a gentle forbearance; inwardly he was very curious to know whether this Sigurd had any connection with the Guldmars, but he refrained from asking too many questions. He simply said in a cheery tone—

"Yes, Sigurd,—why did you come to see me? I'm glad you did; it's very kind of you, but I don't think you even know my name."

To his surprise, Sigurd looked up with a more settled and resolved expression of face, and answered almost as connectedly as any sane man could have done.

"I know your name very well," he said in a low composed manner. "You are Sir Philip Errington, a rich English nobleman. Fate led you to HER grave—a grave that no strange feet have ever passed, save yours—and so I know you are the man for whom her spirit has waited,—she has brought you hither. How foolish to think she sleeps under the stone, when she is always awake and busy,—always at work opposing me! Yes, though I pray her to lie still, she will not!"

His voice grew wild again, and Philip asked quietly—

"Of whom are you speaking, Sigurd?"

His steady tone seemed to have some compelling influence on the confused mind of the half-witted creature, who answered readily and at once—

"Of whom should I speak but Thelma? Thelma, the beautiful rose of the northern forest—Thelma—"

He broke off abruptly with a long shuddering sigh, and rocking himself drearily to and fro, gazed wistfully out to the sea. Errington hazarded a guess as to the purpose of that coffin hidden in the shell cavern.

"Do you mean Thelma living?. . . or Thelma dead?"

"Both," answered Sigurd promptly. "They are one and the same,—you cannot part them. Mother and child,—rose and rosebud! One walks the earth with the step of a queen, the other floats in the air like a silvery cloud; but I see them join and embrace and melt into each other's arms till they unite in one form, fairer than the beauty of angels! And you—you know this as well as I do—you have seen Thelma, you have kissed the cup of friendship with her; but remember!—not with me—not with me!"

He started from his seat, and, running close up to Errington, laid one meagre hand on his chest.

"How strong you are, how broad and brave," he exclaimed with a sort of childish admiration. "And can you not be generous too?"

Errington looked down upon him compassionately. He had learned enough from his incoherent talk to clear up what had seemed a mystery. The scandalous reports concerning Olaf Guldmar were incorrect,—he had evidently laid the remains of his wife in the shell-cavern, for some reason connected with his religious belief, and Thelma's visits to the sacred spot were now easy of comprehension. No doubt it was she who placed fresh flowers there every day, and kept the little lamp burning before the crucifix as a sign of the faith her departed mother had professed, and which she herself followed. But who was Sigurd, and what was he to the Guldmars? Thinking this, he replied to the dwarf's question by a counter-inquiry.

"How shall I be generous, Sigurd? Tell me! What can I do to please you?"

Sigurd's wild blue eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Do!" he cried. "You can go away, swiftly, swiftly, over the seas, and the Altenfjord need know you no more! Spread your white sails!" and he pointed excitedly up to the tall tapering masts of the Eulalie. "You are king here. Command and you are obeyed! Go from us, go! What is there here to delay you? Our mountains are dark and gloomy,—the fields are wild and desolate,—there are rocks, glaciers and shrieking torrents that hiss like serpents gliding into the sea! Oh, there must be fairer lands than this one,—lands where oceans and sky are like twin jewels set in one ring,—where there are sweet flowers and fruits and bright eyes to smile on you all day—yes! for you are as a god in your strength and beauty—no woman will be cruel to YOU! Ah! say you will go away!" and Sigurd's face was transfigured into a sort of pained beauty as he made his appeal. "That is what I came to seek you for,—to ask you to set sail quickly and go, for why should you wish to destroy me? I have done you no harm as yet. Go!—and Odin himself shall follow your path with blessings!"

He paused, almost breathless with his own earnest pleading. Errington was silent. He considered the request a mere proof of the poor creature's disorder. The very idea that Sigurd seemed to entertain of his doing him any harm, showed a reasonless terror and foreboding that was simply to be set down as caused by his unfortunate mental condition. To such an appeal there could be no satisfactory reply. To sail away from the Altenfjord and its now most fascinating attractions, because a madman asked him to do so, was a proposition impossible of acceptance, so Sir Philip said nothing. Sigurd, however, watching his face intently, saw, or thought he saw, a look of resolution in the Englishman's clear, deep grey eyes,—and with the startling quickness common to many whose brains, like musical instruments, are jarred, yet not quite unstrung, he grasped the meaning of that expression instantly.

"Ah! cruel and traitorous!" he exclaimed fiercely. "You will not go; you are resolved to tear my heart out for your sport! I have pleaded with you as one pleads with a king and all in vain—all in vain! You will not go? Listen, see what you will do," and he held up the bunch of purple pansies, while his voice sank to an almost feeble faintness. "Look!" and he fingered the flowers, "look!. . . they are dark and soft as a purple sky,—cool and dewy and fresh;—they are the thoughts of Thelma; such thoughts! So wise and earnest, so pure and full of tender shadows!—no hand has grasped them rudely, no rough touch has spoiled their smoothness! They open full-faced to the sky, they never droop or languish; they have no secrets, save the marvel of their beauty. Now you have come, you will have no pity,—one by one you will gather and play with her thoughts as though they were these blossoms,—your burning hand will mar their color,—they will wither and furl up and die, all of them,—and you,—what will you care? Nothing! no man ever cares for a flower that is withered,—not even though his own hand slew it."

The intense melancholy that vibrated through Sigurd's voice touched his listener profoundly. Dimly he guessed that the stricken soul before him had formed the erroneous idea that he, Errington, had come to do some great wrong to Thelma or her belongings, and he pitied the poor creature for his foolish self-torture.

"Listen to me, Sigurd," he said, with a certain imperativeness; "I cannot promise you to go away, but I can promise that I will do no harm to you or to—to—Thelma. Will that content you?"

Sigurd smiled vacantly and shook his head. He looked at the pansies wistfully and laid them down very gently on one of the deck benches.

"I must go," he said in a faint voice:—"She is calling me."

"Who is calling you?" demanded Errington astonished.

"She is," persisted Sigurd, walking steadily to the gangway. "I can hear her! There are the roses to water, and the doves to feed, and many other things." He looked steadily at Sir Philip, who, seeing he was bent on departure, assisted him to descend the companion ladder into his little boat. "You are sure you will not sail away?"

Errington balanced himself lightly on the ladder and smiled.

"I am sure, Sigurd! I have no wish to sail away. Are you all right there?"

He spoke cheerily, feeling in his own mind that it was scarcely safe for a madman to be quite alone in a cockle-shell of a boat on a deep Fjord, the shores of which were indented with dangerous rocks as sharp as the bristling teeth of fabled sea-monsters, but Sigurd answered him almost contemptuously.

"All right!" he echoed. "That is what the English say always. All right! As if it were ever wrong with me, and the sea! We know each other,—we do each other no harm. YOU may die on the sea, but _I_ shall not! No, there is another way to Valhalla!"

"Oh, I dare say there are no end of ways," said Errington good- temperedly, still poising himself on the ladder, and holding on to the side of his yacht, as he watched his late visitor take the oars and move off. "Good-bye, Sigurd! Take care of yourself! Hope I shall see you again soon."

But Sigurd replied not. Bending to the oars, he rowed swiftly and strongly, and Sir Philip, pulling up the ladder and closing the gangway, saw the little skiff flying over the water like a bird in the direction of the Guldmar's landing-place. He wondered again and again what relationship, if any, this half-crazed being bore to the bonde and his daughter. That he knew all about them was pretty evident; but how? Catching sight of the pansies left on the deck bench, Errington took them, and, descending to the saloon, set them on the table in a tumbler of water.

"Thelma's thoughts, the poor little fellow called them," he mused, with a smile. "A pretty fancy of his, and linked with the crazy imaginings of Ophelia too. 'There's pansies, that's for thoughts,' SHE said, but Sigurd's idea is different; he believes they are Thelma's own thoughts in flower. 'No rough touch has spoiled their smoothness,' he declared; he's right there, I'm sure. And shall I ruffle the sweet leaves; shall I crush the tender petals? or shall I simply transform them, from pansies into roses,—from the dream of love,—into love itself?"

His eyes softened as he glanced at the drooping rose he wore, which Thelma herself had given him, and as he went to his sleeping cabin, he carefully detached it from his button-hole, and taking down a book,—one which he greatly prized, because it had belonged to his mother,—he prepared to press the flower within its leaves. It was the "Imitation of Christ," bound quaintly and fastened with silver clasps, and as he was about to lay his fragrant trophy on the first page that opened naturally of itself, he glanced at the words that there presented themselves to his eyes.

"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing stronger, nothing higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller or better in heaven or in earth!" And with a smile and a warmer flush of color than usual on his handsome face, he touched the rose lightly yet tenderly with his lips and shut it reverently within its sacred resting-place.

CHAPTER IX.

"Our manners are infinitely corrupted, and wonderfully incline to
the worse; of our customs there are many barbarous and monstrous."
MONTAIGNE.

The next day was very warm and bright, and that pious Lutheran divine, the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy, was seriously encumbered by his own surplus flesh material as he wearily rowed himself across the Fjord towards Olaf Guldmar's private pier. As the perspiration bedewed his brow, he felt that Heaven had dealt with him somewhat too liberally in the way of fat—he was provided too amply with it ever to excel as an oarsman. The sun was burning hot, the water was smooth as oil, and very weighty—it seemed to resist every stroke of his clumsily wielded blades. Altogether it was hard, uncongenial work,—and, being rendered somewhat flabby and nerveless by his previous evening's carouse with Macfarlane's whisky, Mr. Dyceworthy was in a plaintive and injured frame of mind, he was bound on a mission—a holy and edifying errand, which would have elevated any minister of his particular sect. He had found a crucifix with the name of Thelma engraved thereon,—he was now about to return it to the evident rightful owner, and in returning it, he purposed denouncing it as an emblem of the "Scarlet Woman, that sitteth on the Seven Hills," and threatening all those who dared to hold it sacred, as doomed to eternal torture, "where the worm dieth not." He had thought over all he meant to say; he had planned several eloquent and rounded sentences, some of which he murmured placidly to himself as he propelled his slow boat along.

"Yea!" he observed in a mild sotto-voce—"ye shall be cut off root and branch! Ye shall be scorched even as stubble,—and utterly destroyed." Here he paused and mopped his streaming forehead with his clean perfumed handkerchief. "Yea!" he resumed peacefully, "the worshippers of idolatrous images are accursed; they shall have ashes for food and gall for drink! Let them turn and repent themselves, lest the wrath of God consume them as straw whirled on the wind. Repent!. . . or ye shall be cast into everlasting fire. Beauty shall avail not, learning shall avail not, meekness shall avail not; for the fire of hell is a searching, endless, destroying—" here Mr. Dyceworthy, by plunging one oar with too much determination into the watery depths, caught a crab, as the saying is, and fell violently backward in a somewhat undignified posture. Recovering himself slowly, he looked about him in a bewildered way, and for the first time noticed the vacant, solitary appearance of the Fjord. Some object was missing; he realized what it was immediately—the English yacht Eulalie was gone from her point of anchorage.

"Dear me!" said Mr. Dyceworthy, half aloud, "what a very sudden departure! I wonder, now, if those young men have gone for good, or whether they are coming back again? Pleasant fellows, very pleasant! flippant, perhaps, but pleasant."

And he smiled benevolently. He had no remembrance of what had occurred, after he had emptied young Macfarlane's flask of Glenlivet; he had no idea that he had been almost carried from his garden into his parlor, and there flung on the sofa and left to sleep off the effects of his strong tipple; least of all did he dream that he had betrayed any of his intentions towards Thelma Guldmar, or given his religious opinions with such free and undisguised candor. Blissfully ignorant on these points, he resumed his refractory oars, and after nearly an hour of laborious effort, succeeded at last in reaching his destination. Arrived at the little pier, he fastened up his boat, and with the lofty air of a thoroughly moral man, he walked deliberately up to the door of the bonde's house. Contrary to custom, it was closed, and the place seemed strangely silent and deserted. The afternoon heat was so great that the song-birds were hushed, and in hiding under the cool green leaves,—the clambering roses round the porch hung down their bright heads for sheer faintness,—and the only sounds to be heard were the subdued coo-cooing of the doves on the roof and the soft trickling rush of a little mountain stream that flowed through the grounds. Some what surprised, though not abashed, at the evident "not-at-home" look of the farm-house, Mr. Dyceworthy rapped loudly at the rough oaken door with his knuckles, there being no such modern convenience as a bell or a knocker. He waited sometime before he was answered, repeating his summons violently at frequent intervals, and swearing irreligiously under his breath as he did so. But at last the door was flung sharply open, and the tangle-haired, rosy-cheeked Britta confronted him with an aspect which was by no means encouraging or polite. Her round blue eyes sparkled saucily, and she placed her bare, plump, red arms, wet with recent soapsuds, akimbo on her sturdy little hips, with an air that was decidedly impertinent.

"Well, what do you want?" she demanded with rude abruptness.

Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her in speechless dignity. Vouchsafing no reply, he attempted to pass her and enter the house. But Britta settled her arms more defiantly than ever, and her voice had a sharper ring as she said—

"It's no use your coming in! There's no one here but me. The master has gone out for the day."

"Young woman," returned Mr. Dyceworthy with polite severity, "I regret to see that your manners stand in sore need of improvement. Your master's absence is of no importance to me. It is with the Froken Thelma I desire to speak."

Britta laughed and tossed her rough brown curls back from her forehead. Mischievous dimples came and went at the corners of her mouth—indications of suppressed fun.

"The Froken is out too," she said demurely. "It's time she had a little amusement; and the gentlemen treat her as if she were a queen!"

Mr. Dyceworthy started, and his red visage became a trifle paler.

"Gentlemen? What gentlemen?" he demanded with some impatience.

Britta's inward delight evidently increased.

"The gentlemen from the yacht, of course," she said. "What other GENTLEMEN are there?" This with a contemptuous up-and-down sort of look at the Lutheran minister's portly form. "Sir Philip Errington was here with his friend yesterday evening and stayed a long time— and today a fine boat with four oars came to fetch the master and Froken Thelma, and they are all gone for a sail to the Kaa Fjord or some other place near here—I cannot remember the name. And I am SO glad!" went on Britta, clasping her plump hands in ecstasy. "They are the grandest, handsomest Herren I have ever seen, and one can tell they think wonders of the Froken—nothing is too good for her!"

Mr. Dyceworthy's face was the picture of dismay. This was a new turn to the course of events, and one, more over, that he had never once contemplated. Britta watched him amusedly.

"Will you leave any message for them when they return?" she asked.

"No," said the minister dubiously. "Yet, stay; yes! I will! Tell the Froken that I have found something which belongs to her, and that when she wishes to have it, I will myself bring it."

Britta looked cross. "If it is hers you have no business to keep it," she said brusquely. "Why not leave it,—whatever it is,—with me?"

Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her with a bland and lofty air.

"I trust no concerns of mine or hers to the keeping of a paid domestic," he said. "A domestic, moreover, who deserts the ways of her own people,—who hath dealings with the dwellers in darkness,— who even bringeth herself to forget much of her own native tongue, and who devoteth herself to—"

What he would have said was uncertain, as at that moment he was nearly thrown down by a something that slipped agilely between his legs, pinching each fat calf as it passed—a something that looked like a ball, but proved to be a human creature—no other than the crazy Sigurd, who, after accomplishing his uncouth gambol successfully, stood up, shaking back his streaming fair locks and laughing wildly.

"Ha, ha!" he exclaimed. "That was good; that was clever! If I had upset you now, you would have said your prayers backward! What are you here for? This is no place for you! They are all gone out of it. SHE has gone—all the world is empty! There is nothing any where but air, air, air!—no birds, no flowers, no trees, no sunshine! All gone with her on the sparkling, singing water!" and he swung his arms round violently, and snapped his fingers in the minister's face. "What an ugly man your are!" he exclaimed with refreshing candor. "I think you are uglier than I am! You are straight,—but you are like a load of peat—heavy and barren and fit to burn. Now, I—I am the crooked bough of a tree, but I have bright leaves where a bird hides and sings all day! You—you have no song, no foliage; only ugly and barren and fit to burn!" He laughed heartily, and, catching sight of Britta, where she stood in the doorway entirely unconcerned at his eccentric behavior, he went up to her and took hold of the corner of her apron. "Take me in, Britta dear—pretty Britta!" he said coaxingly. "Sigurd is hungry! Britta, sweet little Britta,—come and talk to me and sing! Good-bye, fat man!" he added suddenly, turning round once more on Dyceworthy. "You will never overtake the big ship that has gone away with Thelma over the water. Thelma will come back,—yes!. . . .but one day she will go never to come back." He dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. "Last night I saw a little spirit come out of a rose,—he carried a tiny golden hammer and nail, and a ball of cord like a rolled-up sunbeam. He flew away so quickly I could not follow him; but I know where he went! He fastened the nail in the heart of Thelma, deeply, so that the little drops of blood flowed,—but she felt no pain; and then he tied the golden cord to the nail and left her, carrying the other end of the string with him—to whom? Some other heart must be pierced! Whose heart?" Sigurd looked infinitely cunning as well as melancholy, and sighed deeply.

The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was impatient and disgusted.

"It is a pity," he said with an air of solemn patience, "that this hapless creature, accursed of God and man, is not placed in some proper abode suitable to the treatment of his affliction. You, Britta, as the favored servant of a—a—well, let us say, of a peculiar mistress, should persuade her to send this—this—person away, lest his vagaries become harmful."

Britta glanced very kindly at Sigurd, who still held her apron with the air of a trustful child.

"He's no more harmful than you are," she said promptly, in answer to the minister's remark. "He's a good fellow and if he talks strangely he can make himself useful,—which is more than can be said of certain people. He can saw and chop the wood, make hay, feed the cattle, pull a strong oar, and sweep and keep the garden,—can't you, Sigurd?" She laid her hand on Sigurd's shoulder, and he nodded his head emphatically, as she enumerated his different talents. "And as for climbing,—he can guide you anywhere over the hills, or up the streams to the big waterfalls—no one better. And if you mean by peculiar,—that my mistress is different to other people, why, I know she is, and am glad of it,—at any rate, she's a great deal too kind-hearted to shut this poor boy up in a house for madmen! He'd die if he couldn't have the fresh air." She paused, out of breath with her rapid utterance, and Mr. Dyceworthy held up his hands in dignified astonishment.

"You talk too glibly, young woman," he said. "It is necessary that I should instruct you without loss of time, as to how you should be sparing of your words in the presence of your superiors and betters—"

Bang! The door was closed with a decision that sent a sharp echo through the silent, heated air, and Mr. Dyceworthy was left to contemplate it at his leisure. Full of wrath, he was about to knock peremptorily and insist that it should be re-opened; but on second thoughts he decided that it was beneath his dignity to argue with a servant, much less with a declared lunatic like Sigurd,—so he made the best of his way back to his boat, thinking gloomily of the hard labor awaiting him in the long pull back to Bosekop.

Other thoughts, too, tortured and harrassed his brain, and as he again took the oars and plied them wearily through the water, he was in an exceedingly unchristian humor. Though a specious hypocrite, he was no fool. He knew the ways of men and women, and he thoroughly realized the present position of affairs. He was quite aware of Thelma Guldmar's exceptional beauty,—and he felt pretty certain that no man could look upon her without admiration. But up to this time, she had been, as it were, secluded from all eyes,—a few haymakers and fishermen were the only persons of the male sex who had ever been within the precincts of Olaf Guldmar's dwelling, with the exception of himself, Dyceworthy,—who, being armed with a letter of introduction from the actual minister of Bosekop, whose place, he, for the present, filled, had intruded his company frequently and persistently on the bonde and his daughter, though he knew himself to be entirely unwelcome. He had gathered together as much as he could, all the scraps of information concerning them; how Olaf Guldmar was credited with having made away with his wife by foul means; how nobody even knew where his wife had come from; how Thelma had been mysteriously educated, and had learned strange things concerning foreign lands, which no one else in the place understood anything about; how she was reputed to be a witch, and was believed to have cast her spells on the unhappy Sigurd, to the destruction of his reason,—and how nobody could tell where Sigurd himself had come from.

All this Mr. Dyceworthy had heard with much interest, and as the sensual part of his nature was always more or less predominant, ho had resolved in his own mind that here was a field of action suitable to his abilities. To tame and break the evil spirit in the reputed witch; to convert her to the holy and edifying Lutheran faith; to save her soul for the Lord, and take her beautiful body for himself; these were Mr. Dyceworthy's laudable ambitions. There was no rival to oppose him, and he had plenty of time to mature his plans. So he had thought. He had not bargained for the appearance of Sir Philip Bruce Errington on the scene,—a man, young, handsome, and well-bred, with vast wealth to back up his pretensions, should he make any.

"How did he find her out?" thought the Reverend Charles, as he dolefully pulled his craft along. "And that brutal pagan Guldmar, too, who pretends he cannot endure strangers!"

And as he meditated, a flush of righteous indignation crimsoned his flabby features.

"Let her take care," he half muttered, with a smile that was not pleasant; "let her take care! There are more ways than one to bring down her pride! Sir Philip Errington must be too rich and popular in his own country to think of wishing to marry a girl who is only a farmer's daughter after all. He may trifle with her; yes!. . . and he will help me by so doing. The more mud on her name, the better for me; the more disgrace, the more need of rescue, and the more grateful she will have to be. Just a word to Ulrika,—and the scandal will spread. Patience, patience!"

And somewhat cheered by his own reflections, though still wearing an air of offended dignity, he rowed on, glancing up every now and then to see if the Eulalie had returned, but her place was still empty.

Meanwhile, as he thought and planned, other thoughts and plans were being discussed at a meeting which was held in a little ruined stone hut, situated behind some trees on a dreary hill just outside Bosekop. It was a miserable place, barren of foliage,—the ground was dry and yellow, and the hut itself looked as if it had been struck by lightning. The friends, whose taste had led them to select this dilapidated dwelling as a place of conference, were two in number, both women,—one of them no other than the minister's servant, the drear-faced Ulrika. She was crouched on the earth-floor in an attitude of utter abasement, at the feet of her companion,—an aged dame of tall and imposing appearance, who, standing erect, looked down upon her with an air of mingled contempt and malevolence. The hut was rather dark, for the roof was not sufficiently destroyed to have the advantage of being open to the sky. The sunlight fell through holes of different shapes and sizes,- -one specially bright patch of radiance illumining the stately form, and strongly marked, though withered features of the elder woman, whose eyes, deeply sunken in her head, glittered with a hawk-like and evil lustre, as they rested on the prostrate figure before her. When she spoke, her accents were harsh and commanding.

"How long?" she said, "how long must I wait? How long must I watch the work of Satan in the land? The fields are barren and will not bring forth; the curse of bitter poverty is upon us all: and only he, the pagan Guldmar, prospers and gathers in harvest, while all around him starve! Do I not know the devil's work when I see it,—I, the chosen servant of the Lord?" And she struck a tall staff she held violently into the ground to emphasize her words. "Am I not left deserted in my age? The child Britta,—sole daughter of my sole daughter,—is she not stolen, and kept from me? Has not her heart been utterly turned away from mine? All through that vile witch,— accursed of God and man! She it is who casts the blight on our land; she it is who makes the hands and hearts of our men heavy and careless, so that even luck has left the fishing; and yet you hesitate,—you delay, you will not fulfill your promise! I tell you, there are those in Bosekop who, at my bidding, would cast her naked into the Fjord, leave her there, to sink or swim according to her nature!"

"I know," murmured Ulrika humbly, raising herself slightly from her kneeling posture; "I know it well!. . . . but, good Lovisa, be patient! I work for the best! Mr. Dyceworthy will do more for us than we can do for ourselves; he is wise and cautious—"

Lovisa interrupted her with a fierce gesture. "Fool!" she cried. "What need of caution? A witch is a witch, burn her, drown her! There is no other remedy! But two days since, the child of my neighbor Engla passed her on the Fjord; and now the boy has sickened of some strange disease, and 'tis said he will die. Again, the drove of cattle owned by Hildmar Bjorn were herded home when she passed by. Now they are seized by the murrain plague! Tell your good saint Dyceworthy these things; if he can find no cure, _I_ can,—and WILL!"

Ulrika shuddered slightly as she rose from the ground and stood erect, drawing her shawl closely about her.

"You hate her so much, Lovisa?" she asked, almost timidly.

Lovisa's face darkened, and her yellow, claw-like hand closed round her strong staff in a cruel and threatening manner.

"Hate her!" she muttered, "I have hated her ever since she was born! I hated her mother before her! A nest of devils, every one of them; and the curse will always be upon us while they dwell here."

She paused and looked at Ulrika steadily.

"Remember!" she said, with an evil leer on her lips, "I hold a secret of yours that is worth the keeping! I give you two weeks more; within that time you must act! Destroy the witch,—bring back to me my grandchild Britta, or else—it will be MY turn!"

And she laughed silently. Ulrika's face grew paler, and the hand that grasped the folds of her shawl trembled violently. She made an effort, however, to appear composed, as she answered—"I have sworn to obey you, Lovisa,—and I will. But tell me one thing—how do you know that Thelma Guldmar is indeed a witch?"

"How do I know?" almost yelled Lovisa. "Have I lived all these years for nothing? Look at her! Am _I_ like her? Are YOU like her? Are any of the honest women of the neighborhood like her? Meet her on the hills with knives and pins,—prick her, and see if the blood will flow! I swear it will not—not one drop! Her skin is too white; there is no blood in those veins—only fire! Look at the pink in her cheeks,—the transparency of her flesh,—the glittering light in her eyes, the gold of her hair, it is all devil's work, it is not human, it is not natural! I have watched her,—I used to watch her mother, and curse her every time I saw her—ay! curse her till I was breathless with cursing—"

She stopped abruptly. Ulrika gazed at her with as much wonder as her plain, heavy face was capable of expressing. Lovisa saw the look and smiled darkly.

"One would think YOU had never known what love is!" she said, with a sort of grim satire in her tone. "Yet even your dull soul was on fire once! But I—when I was young, I had beauty such as you never had, and I loved—Olaf Guldmar."

Ulrika uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "You! and yet you hate him now?"

Lovisa raised her hand with an imperious gesture.

"I have grown hate like a flower in my breast," she said, with a sort of stern impressiveness. "I have fostered it year after year, and now,—it has grown too strong for me! When Olaf Guldmar was young he told me I was fair; once he kissed my cheek at parting! For those words,—for that kiss,—I loved him then—for the same things I hate him now! When I know he had married, I cursed him; on the day of my own marriage with a man I despised, I cursed him! I have followed him and all his surroundings with more curses than there are hours in the day! I have had some little revenge—yes!"—and she laughed grimly—"but I want more! For Britta has been caught by his daughter's evil spell. Britta is mine, and I must have her back. Understand me well!—do what you have to do without delay! Surely it is an easy thing to ruin a woman!"

Ulrika stood as though absorbed in meditation, and said nothing for some moments. At last she murmured as though to herself—

"Mr. Dyceworthy could do much—if—"

"Ask him, then," said Lovisa imperatively. "Tell him the village is in fear of her. Tell him that if he will do nothing WE will. And if all fails, come to me again; and remember!. . . I shall not only act,—I shall SPEAK!"

And emphasizing the last word as a sort of threat, she turned and strode out of the hut.

Ulrika followed more slowly, taking a different direction to that in which her late companion was seen rapidly disappearing. On returning to the minister's dwelling, she found that Mr. Dyceworthy had not yet come back from his boating excursion. She gave no explanation of her absence to her two fellow-servants, but went straight up to her own room—a bare attic in the roof—where she deliberately took off her dress and bared her shoulders and breast. Then she knelt down on the rough boards, and clasping her hands, began to writhe and wrestle as though she were seized with a sudden convulsion. She groaned and tortured the tears from her eyes; she pinched her own flesh till it was black and blue, and scratched it with her nails till it bled,—and she prayed inaudibly, but with evident desperation. Sometimes her gestures were frantic, sometimes appealing; but she made no noise that was loud enough to attract attention from any of the dwellers in the house. Her stolid features were contorted with anguish,—and had she been an erring nun of the creed she held in such bitter abhorrence, who, for some untold crime, endured a self-imposed penance, she could not have punished her own flesh much more severely.

She remained some quarter of an hour or twenty minutes thus; then rising from her knees, she wiped the tears from her eyes and re- clothed herself,—and with her usual calm, immovable aspect—though smarting from the injuries she had inflicted on herself—she descended to the kitchen, there to prepare Mr. Dyceworthy's tea with all the punctilious care and nicety befitting the meal of so good a man and so perfect a saint.

CHAPTER X.


"She believed that by dealing nobly with all, all would show
themselves noble; so that whatsoever she did became her."
                                            HAFIZ.

As the afternoon lengthened, and the sun lowered his glittering shield towards that part of the horizon where he rested a brief while without setting, the Eulalie,—her white sails spread to the cool, refreshing breeze,—swept gracefully and swiftly back to her old place on the Fjord, and her anchor dropped with musical clank and splash, just as Mr. Dyceworthy entered his house, fatigued, perspiring, and ill-tempered at the non-success of his day. All on board the yacht were at dinner—a dinner of the most tasteful and elegant description, such as Sir Philip Errington well knew how to order and superintend, and Thelma, leaning against the violet velvet cushions that were piled behind her for her greater ease, looked,— as she indeed was,—the veritable queen of the feast. Macfarlane and Duprez had been rendered astonished and bashful by her excessive beauty. From the moment she came on board with her father, clad in her simple white gown, with a deep crimson hood drawn over her fair hair, and tied under her rounded chin, she had taken them all captive—they were her abject slaves in heart, though they put on very creditable airs of manly independence and nonchalance. Each man in his different way strove to amuse or interest her, except, strange to say, Errington himself, who, though deeply courteous to her, kept somewhat in the background and appeared more anxious to render himself agreeable to old Olaf Guldmar, than to win the good graces of his lovely daughter. The girl was delighted with everything on board the yacht,—she admired its elegance and luxury with child-like enthusiasm; she gloried in the speed with which its glittering prow cleaved the waters; she clapped her hands at the hiss of the white foam as it split into a creaming pathway for the rushing vessel; and she was so unaffected and graceful in all her actions and attitudes, that the slow blood of the cautious Macfarlane began to warm up by degrees to a most unwonted heat of admiration. When she had first arrived, Errington, in receiving her, had seriously apologized for not having some lady to meet her, but she seemed not to understand his meaning. Her naive smile and frankly uplifted eyes put all his suddenly conceived notions of social stiffness to flight.

"Why should a lady come?" she asked sweetly. "It is not necessary?. . . ."

"Of course it isn't!" said Lorimer promptly and delightedly. "I am sure we shall be able to amuse you, Miss Guldmar."

"Oh,—for that!" she replied, with a little shrug that had something French about it, "I amuse myself always! I am amused now,—you must not trouble yourselves!"

As she was introduced to Duprez and Macfarlane, she gave them each a quaint, sweeping curtsy, which had the effect of making them feel the most ungainly lumbersome fellows on the face of the earth. Macfarlane grew secretly enraged at the length of his legs,—while Pierre Duprez, though his bow was entirely Parisian, decided in his own mind that it was jerky, and not good style. She was perfectly unembarrassed with all the young men; she laughed at their jokes, and turned her glorious eyes full on them with the unabashed sweetness of innocence; she listened to the accounts they gave her of their fishing and climbing excursions with the most eager interest,—and in her turn, she told them of fresh nooks and streams and waterfalls, of which they had never even heard the names. Not only were they enchanted with her, but they were thoroughly delighted with her father, Olaf Guldmar. The sturdy old pagan was in the best of humors,—and seemed determined to be pleased with everything,—he told good stories,—and laughed that rollicking, jovial laugh of his with such unforced heartiness that it was impossible to be dull in his company,—and not one of Errington's companions gave a thought to the reports concerning him and his daughter, which had been so gratuitously related by Mr. Dyceworthy.

They had had a glorious day's sail, piloted by Valdemar Svensen, whose astonishment at seeing the Guldmars on board the Eulalie was depicted in his face, but who prudently forebore from making any remarks thereon. The bonde hailed him good-humoredly as an old acquaintance,—much in the tone of a master addressing a servant,— and Thelma smiled kindly at him,—but the boundary line between superior and inferior was in this case very strongly marked, and neither side showed any intention of overstepping it. In the course of the day, Duprez had accidentally lapsed into French, whereupon to his surprise Thelma had answered him in the same tongue,—though with a different and much softer pronunciation. Her "bien zoli!" had the mellifluous sweetness of the Provencal dialect, and on his eagerly questioning her, he learned that she had received her education in a large convent at Aries, where she had learned French from the nuns. Her father overheard her talking of her school-days, and he added—

"Yes, I sent my girl away for her education, though I know the teaching is good in Christiania. Yet it did not seem good enough for her. Besides, your modern 'higher education' is not the thing for a woman,—it is too heavy and commonplace. Thelma knows nothing about mathematics or algebra. She can sing and read and write,—and, what is more, she can spin and sew; but even these things were not the first consideration with me. I wanted her disposition trained, and her bodily health attended to. I said to those good women at Arles— 'Look here,—here's a child for you! I don't care how much or how little she knows about accomplishments. I want her to be sound and sweet from head to heel—a clean mind in a wholesome body. Teach her self-respect, and make her prefer death to a lie. Show her the curse of a shrewish temper, and the blessing of cheerfulness. That will satisfy me!' I dare say, now I come to think of it, those nuns thought me an odd customer; but, at any rate, they seemed to understand me. Thelma was very happy with them, and considering all things"—the old man's eyes twinkled fondly—"she hasn't turned out so badly!"

They laughed,—and Thelma blushed as Errington's dreamy eyes rested on her with a look, which, though he was unconscious of it, spoke passionate admiration. The day passed too quickly with them all,— and now, as they sat at dinner in the richly ornamented saloon, there was not one among them who could contemplate without reluctance the approaching break-up of so pleasant a party. Dessert was served, and as Thelma toyed with the fruit on her plate and sipped her glass of champagne, her face grew serious and absorbed,— even sad,—and she scarcely seemed to hear the merry chatter of tongues around her, till Errington's voice asking a question of her father roused her into swift attention.

"Do yon know any one of the name of Sigurd?" he was saying, "a poor fellow whose wits are in heaven let us hope,—for they certainly are not on earth."

Olaf Guldmar's fine face softened with pity, and he replied—

"Sigurd? Have you met him then? Ah, poor boy. his is a sad fate! He has wit enough, but it works wrongly; the brain is there, but 'tis twisted. Yes, we know Sigurd well enough—his home is with us in default of a better. Ay, ay! we snatched him from death—perhaps unwisely,—yet he has a good heart, and finds pleasure in his life."

"He is a kind of poet in his own way," went on Errington, watching Thelma as she listened intently to their conversation. "Do you know he actually visited me on board here last night and begged me to go away from the Altenfjord altogether? He seemed afraid of me, as if he thought I meant to do him some harm."

"How strange!" murmured Thelma. "Sigurd never speaks to visitors,— he is too shy. I cannot understand his motive!"

"Ah, my dear!" sighed her father. "Has he any motive at all?. . . and does he ever understand himself? His fancies change with every shifting breeze! I will tell you," he continued, addressing himself to Errington, "how he came to be, as it were, a bit of our home. Just before Thelma was born, I was walking with my wife one day on the shore, when we both caught sight of something bumping against our little pier, like a large box or basket. I managed to get hold of it with a boat-hook and drag it in; it was a sort of creel such as is used to pack fish in, and in it was the naked body of a half- drowned child. It was an ugly little creature—a newly born infant deformity—and on its chest there was a horrible scar in the shape of a cross, as though it had been gashed deeply with a pen-knife. I thought it was dead, and was for throwing it back into the Fjord, but my wife,—a tender-hearted angel—took the poor wretched little wet body in her arms, and found that it breathed. She warmed it, dried it, and wrapped it in her shawl,—and after awhile the tiny monster opened its eyes and stared at her. Well!. . . somehow, neither of us could forget the look it gave us,—such a solemn, warning, pitiful, appealing sort of expression! There was no resisting it,—so we took the foundling and did the best we could for him. We gave him the name of Sigurd,—and when Thelma was born, the two babies used to play together all day, and we never noticed anything wrong with the boy, except his natural deformity, till he was about ten or twelve years old. Then we saw to our sorrow that the gods had chosen to play havoc with his wits. However, we humored him tenderly, and he was always manageable. Poor Sigurd! He adored my wife; I have known him listen for hours to catch the sound of her footstep; he would actually deck the threshold with flowers in the morning that she might tread on them as she passed by." The old bonds sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes with a gesture half of pain, half of impatience—"And now he is Thelma's slave,—a regular servant to her. She can manage him best of us all,—he is as docile as a lamb, and will do anything she tells him."

"I am not surprised at that," said the gallant Duprez; "there is reason in such obedience!"

Thelma looked at him inquiringly, ignoring the implied compliment.

"You think so?" she said simply "I am glad! I always hope that he will one day be well in mind,—and every little sign of reason in him is pleasant to me."

Duprez was silent. It was evidently no use making even an attempt at flattering this strange girl; surely she must be dense not to understand compliments that most other women compel from the lips of men as their right? He was confused—his Paris breeding was no use to him—in fact he had been at a loss all day, and his conversation had, even to himself, seemed particularly shallow and frothy. This Mademoiselle Guldmar, as he called her, was by no means stupid—she was not a mere moving statue of lovely flesh and perfect color whose outward beauty was her only recommendation,—she was, on the contrary, of a most superior intelligence,—she had read much and thought more,—and the dignified elegance of her manner, and bearing would have done honor to a queen. After all, thought Duprez musingly, the social creeds of Paris MIGHT be wrong—it was just possible! There might be women who were womanly,—there might be beautiful girls who were neither vain nor frivolous,—there might even be creatures of the feminine sex, besides whom a trained Parisian coquette would seem nothing more than a painted fiend of the neuter gender. These were new and startling considerations to the feather-light mind of the Frenchman,—and unconsciously his fancy began to busy itself with the old romantic histories of the ancient French chivalry, when faith, and love, and loyalty, kept white the lilies of France, and the stately courtesy and unflinching pride of the ancient regime made its name honored throughout the world. An odd direction indeed for Pierre Duprez's reflection to wander in—he, who never reflected on either past or future, but was content to fritter away the present as pleasantly as might be—and the only reason to which his unusually serious reverie could be attributed was the presence of Thelma. She certainly had a strange influence on them all, though she herself was not aware of it,—and not only Errington, but each one of his companions had been deeply considering during the day, that notwithstanding the unheroic tendency of modern living, life itself might be turned to good and even noble account, if only an effort were made in the right direction.

Such was the compelling effect of Thelma's stainless mind reflected in her pure face, on the different dispositions of all the young men; and she, perfectly unconscious of it, smiled at them, and conversed gaily,—little knowing as she talked, in her own sweet and unaffected way, that the most profound resolutions were being formed, and the most noble and unselfish deeds, were being planned in the souls of her listeners,—all forsooth! because one fair, innocent woman had, in the clear, grave glances of her wondrous sea- blue eyes, suddenly made them aware of their own utter unworthiness. Macfarlane, meditatively watching the girl from under his pale eyelashes, thought of Mr. Dyceworthy's matrimonial pretensions, with a humorous smile hovering on his thin lips.

"Ma certes! the fellow has an unco' gude opeenion o' himself," he mused. "He might as well offer his hand in marriage to the Queen while he's aboot it,—he wad hae just as muckle chance o' acceptance."

Meanwhile, Errington, having learned all he wished to know concerning Sigurd, was skillfully drawing out old Olaf Guldmar, and getting him to give his ideas on things in general, a task in which Lorimer joined.

"So you don't think we're making any progress nowadays?" inquired the latter with an appearance of interest, and a lazy amusement in his blue eyes as he put the question.

"Progress!" exclaimed Guldmar. "Not a bit of it! It is all a going backward; it may not seem apparent, but it is so. England, for instance, is losing the great place she once held in the world's history,—and these things always happen to all nations when money becomes more precious to the souls of the people than honesty and honor. I take the universal wide-spread greed of gain to be one of the worst signs of the times,—the forewarning of some great upheaval and disaster, the effects of which no human mind can calculate. I am told that America is destined to be the dominating power of the future,—but I doubt it! Its politics are too corrupt,- -its people live too fast, and burn their candle at both ends, which is unnatural and most unwholesome; moreover, it is almost destitute of Art in its highest forms,—and is not its confessed watchward 'the almighty Dollar?' And such a country as that expects to arrogate to itself the absolute sway of the world? I tell you, NO— ten thousand times NO! It is destitute of nearly everything that has made nations great and all-powerful in historic annals,—and my belief is that what, has been, will be again,—and that what has never been, will never be."

"You mean by that, I suppose, that there is no possibility of doing anything new,—no way of branching out in some, better and untried direction?" asked Errington.

Olaf Guldmar shook his head emphatically. "You can't do it," he said decisively. "Everything in every way has been begun and completed and then forgotten over and over in this world,—to be begun and completed and forgotten again, and so on to the end of the chapter. No one nation is better than another in this respect,—there is,— there can be nothing new. Norway, for example, has had its day; whether it will ever have another I know not,—at any rate, I shall not live to see it. And yet, what a past!—" He broke off and his eyes grew meditative.

Lorimer looked at him. "You would have been a Viking, Mr. Guldmar, had you lived in the old days," he said with a smile.

"I should, indeed!" returned the old man, with an unconsciously haughty gesture of his head; "and no better fate could have befallen me! To sail the seas in hot pursuit of one's enemies, or in search of further conquest,—to feel the very wind and sun beating up the blood in one's veins,—to live the life of a MAN—a true man!. . . in all the pride and worth of strength, and invincible vigor!—how much better than the puling, feeble, sickly existence, led by the majority of men to-day! I dwell apart from them as much as I can,—I steep my mind and body in the joys of Nature, and the free fresh air,—but often I feel that the old days of the heroes must have been best,—when Gorm the Bold and the fierce Siegfried seized Paris, and stabled their horses in the chapel where Charlemagne lay buried!"

Pierre Duprez looked up with a faint smile. "Ah, pardon! But that was surely a very long time ago!"

"True!" said Guldmar quietly. "And no doubt you will not believe the story at this distance of years. But the day is coming when people will look back on the little chronicle of your Empire,—your commune,—your republic, all your little affairs, and will say, 'Surely these things are myths; they occurred—if they occurred at all,—a very long time ago!"

"Monsieur is a philosopher!" said Duprez, with a good-humored gesture; "I would not presume to contradict him."

"You see, my lad," went on Guldmar more gently, "there is much in our ancient Norwegian history that is forgotten or ignored by students of to-day. The travellers that come hither come to see the glories of our glaciers and fjords,—but they think little or nothing of the vanished tribe of heroes who once possessed the land. If you know your Greek history, you must have heard of Pythias, who lived three hundred and fifty-six years before Christ, and who was taken captive by a band of Norseman and carried away to see 'the place where the sun slept in winter.' Most probably he came to this very spot, the Altenfjord,—at any rate the ancient Greeks had good words to say for the 'Outside Northwinders,' as they called us Norwegians, for they reported us to be 'persons living in peace with their gods and themselves.' Again, one of the oldest tribes in the world came among us in times past,—the Phoenicians,—there are traces among us still of their customs and manners. Yes! we have a great deal to look back upon with pride as well as sorrow,—and much as I hear of the wonders of the New World, the marvels and the go- ahead speed of American manners and civilization,—I would rather be a Norseman than a Yankee." And he laughed.

"There's more dignity in the name, at any rate," said Lorimer. "But I say, Mr. Guldmar, you are 'up' in history much better than I am. The annals of my country were grounded into my tender soul early in life, but I have a very hazy recollection of them. I know Henry VIII. got rid of his wives expeditiously and conveniently,—and I distinctly remember that Queen Elizabeth wore the first pair of silk stockings, and danced a kind of jig in them with the Earl of Leicester; these things interested me at the time,—and they now seen firmly impressed on my memory to the exclusion of everything else that might possibly be more important."

Old Guldmar smiled, but Thelma laughed outright and her eyes danced mirthfully.

"Ah, I do know you now!" she said, nodding her fair head at him wisely. "You are not anything that is to be believed! So I shall well understand you,—that is, you are a very great scholar,—but that it pleases you to pretend you are a dunce!"

Lorimer's face brightened into a very gentle and winning softness as he looked at her.

"I assure you, Miss Guldmar, I am not pretending in the least. I'm no scholar. Errington is, if you like! If it hadn't been for him, I should never have learned anything at Oxford at all. He used to leap over a difficulty while I was looking at it. Phil, don't interrupt me,—you know you did! I tell you he's up to everything: Greek, Latin, and all the rest of it,—and, what's more, he writes well,—I believe,—though he'll never forgive me for mentioning it,—that he has even published some poems."

"Be quiet, George!" exclaimed Errington, with a vexed laugh. "You are boring Miss Guldmar to death!"

"What is BORING?" asked Thelma gently, and then turning her eyes full on the young Baronet, she added, "I like to hear that you will pass your days sometimes without shooting the birds and killing the fish; it can hurt nobody for you to write." And she smiled that dreamy pensive smile, of hers that was so infinitely bewitching. "You must show me all your sweet poems!"

Errington colored hotly. "They are all nonsense, Miss Guldmar," he said quickly. "There's nothing 'sweet' about them, I tell you frankly! All rubbish, every line of them!"

"Then you should not write them," said Thelma quietly. "It is only a pity and a disappointment."

"I wish every one were of your opinion," laughed Lorimer, "it would spare us a lot of indifferent verse."

"Ah! you have the chief Skald of all the world in your land!" cried Guldmar, bringing his fist down with a jovial thump on the table. "He can teach you all that you need to know."

"SKALD?" queried Lorimer dubiously. "Oh, you mean bard. I suppose you allude to Shakespeare?"

"I do," said the old bonde enthusiastically, "he is the only glory of your country I envy! I would give anything to prove him a Norwegian. By Valhalla! had he but been one of the Bards of Odin, the world might have followed the grand old creed still! If anything could ever persuade me to be a Christian, it would be the fact that Shakespeare was one. If England's name is rendered imperishable, it will be through the fame of Shakespeare alone,—just as we have a kind of tenderness for degraded modern Greece, because of Homer. Ay, ay! countries and nations are worthless enough; it is only the great names of heroes that endure, to teach the lesson that is never learned sufficiently,—namely, that man and man alone is fitted to grasp the prize of immortality."

"Ye believe in immortality?" inquired Macfarlane seriously.

Guldmar's keen eyes lighted on him with fiery impetuousness.

"Believe in it? I possess it! How can it be taken from me? As well make a bird without wings, a tree without sap, an ocean without depths, as expect to find a man without an immortal soul! What a question to ask? Do YOU not possess heaven's gift? and why should not I?"

"No offense," said Macfarlane, secretly astonished at the old bonde's fervor,—for had not he, though himself intending to become a devout minister of the Word,—had not he now and then felt a creeping doubt as to whether, after all, there was any truth in the doctrine of another life than this one. "I only thocht ye might have perhaps questioned the probabeelity o't, in your own mind?"

"I never question Divine authority," replied Olaf Guldmar, "I pity those that do!"

"And this Divine authority?" said Duprez suddenly with a delicate sarcastic smile, "how and where do you perceive it?"

"In the very Law that compels me to exist, young sir," said Guldmar,—"in the mysteries of the universe about me,—the glory of the heavens,—the wonders of the sea! You have perhaps lived in cities all your life, and your mind is cramped a bit. No wonder, . . . you can hardly see the stars above the roofs of a wilderness of houses. Cities are men's work,—the gods have never had a finger in the building of them. Dwelling in them, I suppose you cannot help forgetting Divine authority altogether; but here,—here among the mountains, you would soon remember it! You should live here,—it would make a man of you!"

"And you do not consider me a man?" inquired Duprez with imperturbable good-humor.

Guldmar laughed. "Well, not quite!" he admitted candidly, "there's not enough muscle about you. I confess I like to see strong fellows- -fellows fit to rule the planet on which they are placed. That's my whim!—but you're a neat little chap enough, and I dare say you can hold your own!"

And his eyes twinkled good-temperedly as he filled himself another glass of his host's fine Burgundy, and drank it off, while Duprez, with a half-plaintive, half-comical shrug of resignation to Guldmar's verdict on his personal appearance, asked Thelma if she would favor them with a song. She rose from her seat instantly, without any affected hesitation, and went to the piano. She had a delicate touch, and accompanied herself with great taste,—but her voice, full, penetrating, rich and true,—was one of the purest and most sympathetic ever possessed by woman, and its freshness was unspoilt by any of the varied "systems" of torture invented by singing-masters for the ingenious destruction of the delicate vocal organ. She sang a Norwegian love-song in the original tongue, which might be roughly translated as follows:—

"Lovest thou me for my beauty's sake? Love me not then! Love the victorious, glittering Sun, The fadeless, deathless, marvellous One!"

"Lovest thou me for my youth's sake? Love me not then! Love the triumphant, unperishing Spring, Who every year new charms doth bring!"

"Lovest thou me for treasure's sake? Oh, love me not then! Love the deep, the wonderful Sea, Its jewels are worthier love than me!"

"Lovest thou me for Love's own sake? Ah sweet, then love me! More than the Sun and the Spring and the Sea, Is the faithful heart I will yield to thee!"

A silence greeted the close of her song. Though the young men were ignorant of the meaning of the words still old Guldmar translated them for their benefit, they could feel the intensity of the passion vibrating through her ringing tones,—and Errington sighed involuntarily. She heard the sigh, and turned round on the music- stool laughing.

"Are you so tired, or sad, or what is it?" she asked merrily. "It is too melancholy a tune? And I was foolish to sing it,—because you cannot understand the meaning of it. It is all about love,—and of course love is always sorrowful."

"Always?" asked Lorimer, with a half-smile.

"I do not know," she said frankly, with a pretty deprecatory gesture of her hands,—"but all books say so! It must be a great pain, and also a great happiness. Let me think what I can sing to you now,— but perhaps you will yourself sing?"

"Not one of us have a voice, Miss Guldmar," said Errington. "I used to think I had, but Lorimer discouraged my efforts."

"Men shouldn't sing," observed Lorimer; "if they only knew how awfully ridiculous they look, standing up in dress-coats and white ties, pouring forth inane love-ditties that nobody wants to hear, they wouldn't do it. Only a woman looks pretty while singing."

"Ah, that is very nice!" said Thelma, with a demure smile. "Then I am agreeable to you when I sing?"

Agreeable? This was far too tame a word—they all rose from the table and came towards her, with many assurances of their delight and admiration; but she put all their compliments aside with a little gesture that was both incredulous and peremptory.

"You must not say so many things in praise of me," she said, with a swift upward glance at Errington, where he leaned on the piano regarding her. "It is nothing to be able to sing. It is only like the birds, but we cannot understand the words they say, just as you cannot understand Norwegian. Listen,—here is a little ballad you will all know," and she played a soft prelude, while her voice, subdued to a plaintive murmur, rippled out in the dainty verses of Sainte-Beuve—

"Sur ma lyre, l'autre fois Dans un bois, Ma main preludait a peine; Une colombe descend En passant, Blanche sur le luth d'ebene"

"Mais au lieu d'accords touchants, De doux chants, La colombe gemissante Me demande par pitie Sa moitie Sa moitie lein d'elle absente!"

She sang this seriously and sweetly till she came to the last three lines, when, catching Errington's earnest gaze, her voice quivered and her cheeks flushed. She rose from the piano as soon as she had finished, and said to the bonde, who had been watching her with proud and gratified looks—

"It is growing late, father. We must say good-bye to our friends and return home."

"Not yet!" eagerly implored Sir Philip. "Come up on deck,—we will have coffee there, and afterwards you shall leave us when you will."

Guldmar acquiesced in this arrangement, before his daughter had time to raise any objection, and they all went on deck, where a comfortable lounging chair was placed for Thelma, facing the most gorgeous portion of the glowing sky, which on this evening was like a moving mass of molten gold, split asunder here and there by angry ragged-looking rifts of crimson. The young men grouped themselves together at the prow of the vessel in order to smoke their cigars without annoyance to Thelma. Old Guldmar did not smoke, but he talked,—and Errington after seeing them all fairly absorbed in an argument on the best methods of spearing salmon, moved quietly away to where the girl was sitting, her great pensive eyes fixed on the burning splendors of the heavens.

"Are you warm enough there?" he asked, and there was an unconscious tenderness in his voice as he asked the question, "or shall I fetch you a wrap?"

She smiled. "I have my hood," she said. "It is the warmest thing I ever wear, except, of course, in winter."

Philip looked at the hood as she drew it more closely over her head, and thought that surely no more becoming article of apparel ever was designed for woman's wear. He had never seen anything like it either in color or texture,—it was of a peculiarly warm, rich crimson, like the heart of a red damask rose, and it suited the bright hair and tender, thoughtful eyes of its owner to perfection.

"Tell me," he said, drawing a little nearer and speaking in a lower tone, "have you forgiven me for my rudeness the first time I saw you?"

She looked a little troubled.

"Perhaps also I was rude," she said gently. "I did not know you. I thought—"

"You were quite right," he eagerly interrupted her. "It was very impertinent of me to ask you for your name. I should have found it out for myself, as I HAVE done."

And he smiled at her as he said the last words with marked emphasis. She raised her eyes wistfully.

"And you are glad?" she asked softly and with a sort of wonder in her accents.

"Glad to know your name? glad to know YOU! Of course! Can you ask such a question?"

"But why?" persisted Thelma. "It is not as if you were lonely,—you have friends already. We are nothing to you. Soon you will go away, and you will think of the Altenfjord as a dream,—and our names will be forgotten. That is natural!"

What a foolish rush of passion filled his heart as she spoke in those mellow, almost plaintive accents,—what wild words leaped to his lips and what an effort it cost him to keep them hack. The heat and impetuosity of Romeo,—whom up to the present he had been inclined to consider a particularly stupid youth,—was now quite comprehensible to his mind, and he, the cool, self-possessed Englishman, was ready at that moment to outrival Juliet's lover, in his utmost excesses of amorous folly. In spite of his self- restraint, his voice quivered a little as he answered her—

"I shall never forget the Altenfjord or you, Miss Guldmar. Don't you know there are some things that cannot be forgotten? such as a sudden glimpse of fine scenery,—a beautiful song, or a pathetic poem?" She bent her head in assent. "And here there is so much to remember—the light of the midnight sun,—the glorious mountains, the loveliness of the whole land!"

"Is it better than other countries you have seen?" asked the girl with some interest.

"Much better!" returned Sir Philip fervently. "In fact, there is no place like it in my opinion." He paused at the sound of her pretty laughter.

"You are—what is it?—ecstatic!" she said mirthfully. "Tell me, have you been to the south of France and the Pyrenees?"

"Of course I have," he replied. "I have been all over the Continent,—travelled about it till I'm tired of it. Do you like the south of France better than Norway?"

"No,—not so very much better," she said dubiously. "And yet a little. It is so warm and bright there, and the people are gay. Here they are stern and sullen. My father loves to sail the seas, and when I first went to school at Arles, he took me a long and beautiful voyage. We went from Christiansund to Holland, and saw all those pretty Dutch cities with their canals and quaint bridges. Then we went through the English Channel to Brest,—then by the Bay of Biscay to Bayonne. Bayonne seemed to me very lovely, but we left it soon, and travelled a long way by land, seeing all sorts of wonderful things, till we came to Arles. And though it is such a long route, and not one for many persons to take, I have travelled to Arles and back twice that way, so all there is familiar to me,— and in some things I do think it better than Norway."

"What induced your father to send you so far away from him?" asked Philip rather curiously.

The girl's eyes softened tenderly. "Ah, that is easy to understand!" she said. "My mother came from Arles."

"She was French, then?" he exclaimed with some surprise.

"No," she answered gravely. "She was Norwegian, because her father and mother both were of this land. She was what they call 'born sadly.' You must not ask me any more about her, please!"

Errington apologized at once with some embarrassment, and a deeper color than usual on his face. She looked up at him quite frankly.

"It is possible I will tell you her history some day," she said, "when we shall know each other better. I do like to talk to you very much! I suppose there are many Englishmen like you?"

Philip laughed. "I don't think I am at all exceptional! why do you ask?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I have seen some of them," she said slowly," and they are stupid. They shoot, shoot,—fish, fish, all day, and eat a great deal. . . ."

"My dear Miss Guldmar, I also do all these things!" declared Errington amusedly. "These are only our surface faults. Englishmen are the best fellows to be found anywhere. You mustn't judge them by their athletic sports, or their vulgar appetites. You must appeal to their hearts when you want to know them."

"Or to their pockets, and you will know them still better!" said Thelma almost mischievously, as she raised herself in her chair to take a cup of coffee from the tray that was then being handed to her by the respectful steward "Ah, how good this is! It reminds me of our coffee luncheon at Arles!"

Errington watched her with a half-smile, but said no more, as the others now came up to claim their share of her company.

"I say!" said Lorimer, lazily throwing himself full length on the deck and looking up at her, "come and see us spear a salmon to- morrow, Miss Guldmar. Your father is going to show us how to do it in the proper Norse style."

"That is for men," said Thelma loftily. "Women must know nothing about such things."

"By Jove!" and Lorimer looked profoundly astonished. "Why, Miss Guldmar, women are going in for everything nowadays! Hunting, shooting, bull-fighting, duelling, horse-whipping, lecturing,— heaven knows what! They stop at nothing—salmon-spearing is a mere trifle in the list of modern feminine accomplishments."

Thelma smiled down upon him benignly. "You will always be the same," she said with a sort of indulgent air. "It is your delight to say things upside down? But you shall not make me believe that women do all these dreadful things. Because, how is it possible? The men would not allow them!"

Errington laughed, and Lorimer appeared stupefied with surprise.

"The men—would—not—allow them?" he repeated slowly. "Oh, Miss Guldmar, little do you realize the state of things at the present day! The glamor of Viking memories clings about you still! Don't you know the power of man has passed away, and that ladies do exactly as they like? It is easier to control the thunderbolt than to prevent a woman having her own way."

"All that is nonsense!" said Thelma decidedly. "Where there is a man to rule, he MUST rule, that is certain."

"Is that positively your opinion?" and Lorimer looked more astonished than ever.

"It is everybody's opinion, of course!" averred Thelma. "How foolish it would be if women did not obey men! The world would be all confusion! Ah, you see you cannot make me think your funny thoughts; it is no use!" And she laughed and rose from her chair, adding with a gentle persuasive air, "Father dear, is it not time to say good- bye?"

"Truly I think it is!" returned Guldmar, giving himself a shake like an old lion, as he broke off a rather tedious conversation he had been having with Macfarlane. "We shall have Sigurd coming to look for us, and poor Britta will think we have left her too long alone. Thank you, my lad!" this to Sir Philip, who instantly gave orders for the boat to be lowered. "You have given us a day of thorough, wholesome enjoyment. I hope I shall be able to return it in some way. You must let me see as much of you as possible."

They shook hands cordially, and Errington proposed to escort them back as far as their own pier, but this offer Guldmar refused.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed cheerily. "With four oarsmen to row us along, why should we take you away from your friends? I won't hear of such a thing! And now, regarding the great fall of Njedegorze; Mr. Macfarlane here says you have not visited it yet. Well the best guide you can have there is Sigurd. We'll make up a party and go when it is agreeable to you; it is a grand sight,—well worth seeing. To-morrow we shall meet again for the salmon-spearing,—I warrant I shall be able to make the time pass quickly for you! How long do you think of staying here?"

"As long as possible!" answered Errington absently, his eyes wandering to Thelma, who was just then shaking hands with his friends and bidding them farewell.

Guldmar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "That means till you are tired of the place," he said good-humoredly." Well you shall not be dull if I can prevent it! Good-bye, and thanks for your hospitality."

"Ah, yes!" added Thelma gently, coming up at that moment and laying her soft hand in his. "I have been so happy all day, and it is all your kindness! I am very grateful!"

"It is I who have cause to be grateful," said Errington hurriedly, clasping her hand warmly, "for your company and that of your father. I trust we shall have many more pleasant days together."

"I hope so too!" she answered simply, and then, the boat being ready, they departed. Errington and Lorimer leaned on the deck- rails, waving their hats and watching them disappear over the gleaming water, till the very last glimpse of Thelma's crimson hood had vanished, and then they turned to rejoin their companions, who were strolling up and down smoking.

"Belle comme un angel!" said Duprez briefly. "In short, I doubt if the angels are so good-looking!"

"The auld pagan's a fine scholar," added Macfarlane meditatively. "He corrected me in a bit o' Latin."

"Did he, indeed?" And Lorimer laughed indolently. "I suppose you think better of him now, Sandy?"

Sandy made no reply, and as Errington persisted in turning the conversation away from the merits or demerits of their recent guests, they soon entered on other topics. But that night, before retiring to rest, Lorimer laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, and said quietly, with a keen look—

"Well, old man, have you made up your mind? Have I seen the future Lady Bruce-Errington?"

Sir Philip smiled,—then, after a brief pause, answered steadily—

"Yes, George, you have! That is,—if I can win her!"

Lorimer laughed a little and sighed. "There's no doubt about that, Phil." And eyeing Errington's fine figure and noble features musingly, he repeated again thoughtfully—"No doubt about that, my boy!" Then after a pause he said, somewhat abruptly, "Time to turn in—good night!"

"Good night, old fellow!" And Errington wrung his hand warmly, and left him to repose.

But Lorimer had rather a bad night,—he tossed and tumbled a good deal, and had dreams,—unusual visitors with him,—and once or twice he muttered in his sleep,—"No doubt about it—not the least in the world—and if there were—"

But the conclusion of this sentence was inaudible.

CHAPTER XI.


    "Tu vas faire un beau reve,
     Et t'enivrer d'un plaisir dangereux.
     Sur ton chemin l'etoile qui se leve
     Longtemps encore eblouira les yeux!"
 
                                De Musset.

A fortnight passed. The first excursion in the Eulalie had been followed by others of a similar kind, and Errington's acquaintance with the Guldmars was fast ripening into a pleasant intimacy. It had grown customary for the young men to spend that part of the day which, in spite of persistent sunshine, they still called evening, in the comfortable, quaint parlor of the old farmhouse,—looking at the view through the rose-wreathed windows,—listening to the fantastic legends of Norway as told by Olaf Guldmar,—or watching Thelma's picturesque figure, as she sat pensively apart in her shadowed corner spinning. They had fraternized with Sigurd too—that is, as far as he would permit them—for the unhappy dwarf was uncertain of temper, and if at one hour he were docile and yielding as a child, the next he would be found excited and furious at some imaginary slight that he fancied had been inflicted upon him. Sometimes, if good-humored, he would talk almost rationally,—only allowing his fancy to play with poetical ideas concerning the sea, the flowers, or the sunlight,—but he was far more often sullen and silent. He would draw a low chair to Thelma's side, and sit there with half-closed eyes and compressed lips, and none could tell whether he listened to the conversation around him, or was utterly indifferent to it. He had taken a notable fancy to Lorimer, but he avoided Errington in the most marked and persistent manner. The latter did his best to overcome this unreasonable dislike, but his efforts were useless,—and deciding in his own mind that it was best to humor Sigurd's vagaries, he soon let him alone, and devoted his attention more entirely to Thelma.

One evening, after supper at the farmhouse, Lorimer, who for some time had been watching Philip and Thelma conversing together in low tones near the open window, rose from his seat quietly, without disturbing the hilarity of the bonde, who was in the middle of a rollicking sea-story, told for Macfarlane's entertainment,—and slipped out into the garden, where he strolled along rather absently till he found himself in the little close thicket of pines,—the very same spot where he and Philip had stood on the first day of their visit thither. He threw himself down on the soft emerald moss and lit a cigar, sighing rather drearily as he did so.

"Upon my life," he mused, with a half-smile, "I am very nearly being a hero,—a regular stage-martyr,—the noble creature of the piece! By Jove, I wish I were a soldier! I'm certain I could stand the enemy's fire better than this! Self-denial? Well, no wonder the preachers make such a fuss about it, It's a tough, uncomfortable duty. But am I self-denying? Not a bit of it! Look here, George Lorimer"—here he tapped himself very vigorously on his broad chest- -"don't you imagine yourself to be either virtuous or magnanimous! If you were anything of a man at all you would never let your feelings get the better of you,—you would be sublimely indifferent, stoically calm,—and, as it is,—you know what a sneaking, hang-dog state of envy you were in just now when you came out of that room! Aren't you ashamed of yourself,—rascal?"

The inner self he thus addressed was most probably abashed by this adjuration, for his countenance cleared a little, as though he had received an apology from his own conscience. He puffed lazily at his cigar, and felt somewhat soothed. Light steps below him attracted his attention, and, looking down from the little knoll on which he lay, he saw Thelma and Philip pass. They were walking slowly along a little winding path that led to the orchard, which was situated at some little distance from the house. The girl's head was bent, and Philip was talking to her with evident eagerness. Lorimer looked after them earnestly, and his honest eyes were full of trouble.

"God bless them both!" he murmured half aloud. "There's no harm in saying that, any how! Dear old Phil! I wonder whether—"

What he would have said was uncertain, for at that moment he was considerably startled by the sight of a meagre, pale face peering through the parted pine boughs,—a face in which two wild eyes shone with a blue-green glitter, like that of newly sharpened steel.

"Hello, Sigurd!" said Lorimer good-naturedly, as he recognized his visitor. "What are you up to? Going to climb a tree?"

Sigurd pushed aside the branches cautiously and approached. He sat down by Lorimer, and, taking his hand, kissed it deferentially.

"I followed you. I saw you go away to grieve alone. I came to grieve also!" he said with a patient gentleness.

Lorimer laughed languidly. "By Jove, Sigurd, you're too clever for your age! Think I came away to grieve, eh? Not so, my boy—came away to smoke! There's a come-down for you! I never grieve—don't know how to do it. What IS grief?"

"To love!" answered Sigurd promptly. "To see a beautiful elf with golden wings come fluttering, fluttering gently down from the sky,— you open your arms to catch her—so!. . . and just as you think you have her, she leans only a little bit on one side, and falls, not into your heart—no!—into the heart of some one else! That is grief, because, when she has gone, no more elves come down from the sky,—for you, at any rate,—good things may come for others,—but for YOU the heavens are empty!"

Lorimer was silent, looking at the speaker curiously.

"How do you get all this nonsense into your head, eh?" he inquired kindly.

"I do not know," replied Sigurd with a sigh. "It comes! But, tell me,"—and he smiled wistfully—"it is true, dear friend—good friend—it is all true, is it not? For you the heavens are empty? You know it!"

Lorimer flushed hotly, and then grew strangely pale. After a pause, he said in his usual indolent way—

"Look here, Sigurd; you're romantic! I'm not. I know nothing about elves or empty heavens. I'm all right! Don't you bother yourself about me."

The dwarf studied his face attentively, and a smile of almost fiendish cunning suddenly illumined his thin features. He laid his weak-looking white hand on the young man's arm and said in a lower tone—

"I will tell you what to do. Kill him!"

The last two words were uttered with such intensity of meaning that Lorimer positively recoiled from the accents, and the terrible look which accompanied them.

"I say, Sigurd, this won't do," he remonstrated gravely. "You mustn't talk about killing, you know! It's not good for you. People don't kill each other nowadays so easily as you seem to think. It can't be done, Sigurd! Nobody wants to do it."

"It CAN be done!" reiterated the dwarf imperatively. "It MUST be done, and either you or I will do it! He shall not rob us,—he shall not steal the treasure of the golden midnight. He shall not gather the rose of all roses—"

"Stop!" said Lorimer suddenly. "Who are you talking about?"

"Who!" cried Sigurd excitedly. "Surely you know. Of him—that tall, proud, grey-eyed Englishman,—your foe, your rival; the rich, cruel Errington. . . ."

Lorimer's hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and his voice was very stern.

"What nonsense, Sigurd! You don't know what you are talking about to-day. Errington my foe! Good heavens! Why, he's my best friend! Do you hear?"

Sigurd stared up at him in vacant surprise, but nodded feebly.

"Well, mind you remember it! The spirits tell lies, my boy, if they say that he is my enemy. I would give my life to save his!"

He spoke quietly, and rose from his seat on the moss as he finished his words, and his face had an expression that was both noble and resolute.

Sigurd still gazed upon him. "And you,—you do not love Thelma?" he murmured.

Lorimer started, but controlled himself instantly. His frank English eyes met the feverishly brilliant ones fixed so appealingly upon him.

"Certainly not!" he said calmly, with a serene smile. "What makes you think of such a thing? Quite wrong, Sigurd,—the spirits have made a mistake again! Come along,—let us join the others."

But Sigurd would not accompany him. He sprang away like a frightened animal, in haste, and abruptly plunging into the depths of a wood that bordered on Olaf Guldmar's grounds, was soon lost to sight. Lorimer looked after him in a little perplexity.

"I wonder if he ever gets dangerous?" he thought. "A fellow with such queer notions might do some serious harm without meaning it. I'll keep an eye on him!"

And once or twice during that same evening, he felt inclined to speak to Errington on the subject, but no suitable opportunity presented itself—and after a while, with his habitual indolence, he partly forgot the circumstance.

On the following Sunday afternoon Thelma sat alone under the wide blossom-covered porch, reading. Her father and Sigurd,—accompanied by Errington and his friends,—had all gone for a mountain ramble, promising to return for supper, a substantial meal which Britta was already busy preparing. The afternoon was very warm,—one of those long, lazy stretches of heat and brilliancy in which Nature seems to have lain down to rest like a child tired of play, sleeping in the sunshine with drooping flowers in her hands. The very ripple of the stream seemed hushed, and Thelma, though her eyes were bent seriously on the book she held, sighed once or twice heavily as though she were tired. There was a change in the girl,—an undefinable something seemed to have passed over her and toned down the redundant brightness of her beauty. She was paler,—and there were darker shadows than usual under the splendor of her eyes. Her very attitude, as she leaned her head against the dark, fantastic carving of the porch, had a touch of listlessness and indifference in it; her sweetly arched lips drooped with a plaintive little line at the corners, and her whole air was indicative of fatigue, mingled with sadness. She looked up now and then from the printed page, and her gaze wandered over the stretch of the scented, flower-filled garden, to the little silvery glimmer of the Fjord from whence arose, like delicate black streaks against the sky, the slender masts of the Eulalie,—and then she would resume her reading with a slight movement of impatience.

The volume she held was Victor Hugo's "Orientales," and though her sensitive imagination delighted in poetry as much as in sunshine, she found it for once hard to rivet her attention as closely as she wished to do, on the exquisite wealth of language, and glow of color, that distinguishes the writings of the Shakespears of France. Within the house Britta was singing cheerily at her work, and the sound of her song alone disturbed the silence. Two or three pale- blue butterflies danced drowsily in and out a cluster of honeysuckle that trailed downwards, nearly touching Thelma's shoulder, and a diminutive black kitten, with a pink ribbon round its neck, sat gravely on the garden path, washing its face with its tiny velvety paws, in that deliberate and precise fashion, common to the spoiled and petted members of its class. Everything was still and peaceful as became a Sunday afternoon,—so that when the sound of a heavy advancing footstep disturbed the intense calm, the girl was almost nervously startled, and rose from her seat with so much precipitation, that the butterflies, who had possibly been considering whether her hair might not be some new sort of sunflower, took fright and flew far upwards, and the demure kitten scared out of its absurd self-consciousness, scrambled hastily up the nearest little tree. The intruder on the quietude of Guldmar's domain was the Rev. Mr. Dyceworthy,—and as Thelma, standing erect in the porch, beheld him coming, her face grew stern and resolute, and her eyes flashed disdainfully.

Ignoring the repellant, almost defiant dignity of the girl's attitude, Mr. Dyceworthy advanced, rather out of breath and somewhat heated,—and smiling benevolently, nodded his head by way of greeting, without removing his hat.

"Ah, Froken Thelma!" he observed condescendingly. "And how are you to-day? You look remarkably well—remarkably so, indeed!" And he eyed her with mild approval.

"I am well, I thank you," she returned quietly. "My father is not in, Mr. Dyceworthy."

The Reverend Charles wiped his hot face, and his smile grew wider.

"What matter?" he inquired blandly. "We shall, no doubt, entertain ourselves excellently without him! It is with you alone, Froken, that I am desirous to hold converse."

And, without waiting for her permission, he entered the porch, and settled himself comfortably on the bench opposite to her, heaving a sigh of relief as he did so. Thelma remained standing—and the Lutheran minister's covetous eye glanced greedily over the sweeping curves of her queenly figure, the dazzling whiteness of her slim arched throat, and the glitter of her rich hair. She was silent—and there was something in her manner as she confronted him that made it difficult for Mr. Dyceworthy to speak. He hummed and hawed several times, and settled his stiff collar once or twice as though it hurt him; finally he said with an evident effort—

"I have found a—a—trinket of yours—a trifling toy—which, perhaps, you would be glad to have again." And he drew carefully out of his waistcoat pocket, a small parcel wrapped up in tissue paper, which he undid with his fat fingers, thus displaying the little crucifix he had kept so long in his possession. "Concerning this," he went on, holding it up before her, "I am grievously troubled,— and would fain say a few necessary words—"

She interrupted him, reaching out her hand for the cross as she spoke.

"That was my mother's crucifix," she said in solemn, infinitely tender accents, with a mist as of unshed tears in her sweet blue eyes. "It was round her neck when she died. I knew I had lost it, and was very unhappy about it. I do thank you with all my heart for bringing it back to me!"

And the hauteur of her face relaxed, and her smile—that sudden sweet smile of hers,—shone forth like a gleam of sunshine athwart a cloud.

Mr. Dyceworthy's breath came and went with curious rapidity. His visage grew pale, and a clammy dew broke out upon his forehead. He took the hand she held out,—a fair, soft hand with a pink palm like an upcurled shell,—and laid the little cross within it, and still retaining his hold of her, he stammeringly observed—

"Then we are friends, Froken Thelma!.. . . good friends, I hope?"

She withdrew her fingers quickly from his hot, moist clasp, and her bright smile vanished.

"I do not see that at all!" she replied frigidly. "Friendship is very rare. To be friends, one must have similar tastes and sympathies,—many things which we have not,—and which we shall never have. I am slow to call any person my friend."

Mr. Dyceworthy's small pursy mouth drew itself into a tight thin line.

"Except," he said, with a suave sneer, "except when 'any person' happens to be a rich Englishman with a handsome face and easy manners!. . . then you are not slow to make friends, Froken,—on the contrary, you are remarkably quick!"

The cold haughty stare with which the girl favored him might have frozen a less conceited man to a pillar of ice.

"What do you mean?" she asks abruptly, and with an air of surprise.

The minister's little ferret-like eyes, drooped under their puny lids, and he fidgeted on the seat with uncomfortable embarrassment. He answered her in the mildest of mild voices.

"You are unlike yourself, my dear Froken!" he said, with a soothing gesture of one of his well-trimmed white hands. "You are generally frank and open, but to-day I find you just a little,—well!—what shall I say—secretive! Yes, we will call it secretive! Oh, fie!" and Mr. Dyceworthy laughed a gentle little laugh; "you must not pretend ignorance of what I mean! All the neighborhood is talking of you and the gentleman you are so often seen with. Notably concerning Sir Philip Errington,—the vile tongue of rumor is busy,—for, according to his first plans when his yacht arrived here, he was bound for the North Cape,—and should have gone there days ago. Truly, I think,—and there are others who think also in the same spirit of interest for you,—that the sooner this young man leaves our peaceful Fjord the better,—and the less he has to do with the maidens of the district, the safer we shall be from the risk of scandal." And he heaved a pious sigh.

Thelma turned her eyes upon him in wonderment.

"I do not understand you," she said coldly. "Why do you speak of OTHERS? No others are interested in what I do? Why should they be? Why should YOU be? There is no need!"

Mr. Dyceworthy grew slightly excited. He felt like a runner nearing the winning-post.

"Oh, you wrong yourself, my dear Froken," he murmured softly, with a sickly attempt at tenderness in his tone. "You really wrong yourself! It is impossible,—for me at least, not to be interested in you,—even for our dear Lord's sake. It troubles me to the inmost depths of my soul to behold in you one of the foolish virgins whose light hath been extinguished for lack of the saving oil,—to see you wandering as a lost sheep in the paths of darkness and error, without a hand to rescue your steps from the near and dreadful precipice! Ay, truly!. . . my spirit yearneth for you as a mother for an own babe—fain would I save you from the devices of the evil one,—fain would I—" here the minister drew out his handkerchief and pressed it lightly to his eyes,—then, as if with an effort overcoming his emotion, he added, with the gravity of a butcher presenting an extortionate bill," but first,—before my own humble desires for your salvation—first, ere I go further in converse, it behoveth me to enter on the Lord's business!"

Thelma bent her head slightly, with an air as though she said: "Indeed; pray do not be long about it!" And, leaning back against the porch, she waited somewhat impatiently.

"The image I have just restored to you," went on Mr. Dyceworthy in his most pompous and ponderous manner, "you say belonged to your unhappy—"

"She was not unhappy," interposed the girl, calmly.

"Ay, ay!" and the minister nodded with a superior air of wisdom. "So you imagine, so you think,—you must have been too young to judge of these things. She died—"

"I saw her die," again she interrupted, with a musing tenderness in her voice. "She smiled and kissed me,—then she laid her thin, white hand on this crucifix, and, closing her eyes, she went to sleep. They told me it was death, since then I have known that death is beautiful!"

Mr. Dyceworthy coughed,—a little cough of quiet incredulity. He was not fond of sentiment in any form, and the girl's dreamily pensive manner annoyed him. Death "beautiful?" Faugh! it was the one thing of all others that he dreaded; it was an unpleasant necessity, concerning which he thought as little as possible. Though he preached frequently on the peace of the grave and the joys of heaven,—he was far from believing in either,—he was nervously terrified of illness, and fled like a frightened hare from the very rumor of any infectious disorder, and he had never been known to attend a death-bed. And now, in answer to Thelma, he nodded piously and rubbed his hands, and said—

"Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt! All very proper on your part, I am sure! But concerning this same image of which I came to speak,—it is most imperative that you should be brought to recognize it as a purely carnal object, unfitting a maiden's eyes to rest upon. The true followers of the Gospel are those who strive to forget the sufferings of our dear Lord as much as possible,—or to think of them only in spirit. The minds of sinners, alas! are easily influenced,—and it is both unseemly and dangerous to gaze freely upon the carven semblance of the Lord's limbs! Yea, truly, it hath oft been considered as damnatory to the soul,—more especially in the cases of women immured as nuns, who encourage themselves in an undue familiarity with our Lord, by gazing long and earnestly upon his body nailed to the accursed tree."

Here Mr. Dyceworthy paused for breath. Thelma was silent, but a faint smile gleamed on her face.

"Wherefore," he went on, "I do adjure you, as you desire grace and redemption, to utterly cast from you the vile trinket, I have,— Heaven knows how reluctantly!. . . returned to your keeping,—to trample upon it, and renounce it as a device of Satan. . ." He stopped, surprised and indignant, as she raised the much-abused emblem to her lips and kissed it reverently.

"It is the sign of peace and salvation," she said steadily, "to me, at least. You waste your words, Mr. Dyceworthy; I am a Catholic."

"Oh, say not so!" exclaimed the minister, now thoroughly roused to a pitch of unctuous enthusiasm. "Say not so. Poor child! who knowest not the meaning of the word used. Catholic signifies universal. God forbid a universal Papacy! You are not a Catholic—no! You are a Roman—by which name we understand all that is most loathsome and unpleasing unto God! But I will wrestle for your soul,—yea, night and day will I bend my spiritual sinews to the task,—I will obtain the victory,—I will exorcise the fiend! Alas, alas! you are on the brink of hell—think of it!" and Mr. Dyceworthy stretched out his hand with his favorite pulpit gesture. "Think of the roasting and burning,—the scorching and withering of souls! Imagine, if you can, the hopeless, bitter, eternal damnation," and here he smacked his lips as though he were tasting something excellent,—"from which there is no escape!. . . for which there shall be no remedy!"

"It is a gloomy picture," said Thelma, with a quiet sparkle in her eye. "I am sorry,—for YOU. But I am happier,—my faith teaches of purgatory—there is always a little hope!"

"There is none! there is none!" exclaimed the minister rising in excitement from his seat, and swaying ponderously to and fro as he gesticulated with hands and head. "You are doomed,—doomed! There is no middle course between hell and heaven. It must be one thing or the other; God deals not in half-measures! Pause, oh pause, ere you decide to fall! Even at the latest hour the Lord desires to save your soul,—the Lord yearns for your redemption, and maketh me to yearn also. Froken Thelma!" and Mr. Dyceworthy's voice deepened in solemnity, "there is a way which the Lord hath whispered in mine ears,—a way that pointeth to the white robe and the crown of glory,—a way by which you shall possess the inner peace of the heart with bliss on earth as the forerunner of bliss in heaven!"

She looked at him steadfastly. "And that way is—what?" she inquired.

Mr. Dyceworthy hesitated, and wished with all his heart that this girl was not so thoroughly self-possessed. Any sign of timidity in her would have given him an increase of hardihood. But her eyes were coldly brilliant, and glanced him over without the smallest embarrassment. He took refuge in his never-failing remedy, his benevolent smile—a smile that covered a multitude of hypocrisies.

"You ask a plain question, Froken," he said sweetly, "and I should be loth not to give you a plain answer. That way-that glorious way of salvation for you is—through ME!"

And his countenance shone with smug self-satisfaction as he spoke, and he repeated softly, "Yes, yes; that way is through me!"

She moved with a slight gesture of impatience. "It is a pity to talk any more," she said rather wearily. "It is all no use! Why do you wish to change me in my religion? I do not wish to change YOU. I do not see why we should speak of such things at all."

"Of course!" replied Mr. Dyceworthy blandly. "Of course you do not see. And why? Because you are blind." Here he drew a little nearer to her, and looked covetously at the curve of her full, firm waist.

"Oh, why!" he resumed in a sort of rapture—"why should we say it is a pity to talk any more? Why should we say it is all no use? It IS of use,—it is noble, it is edifying to converse of the Lord's good pleasure! And what is His good pleasure at this moment? To unite two souls in His service! Yea, He hath turned my desire towards you, Froken Thelma,—even as Jacob's desire was towards Rachel! Let me see this hand." He made a furtive grab at the white taper fingers that played listlessly with the jessamine leaves on the porch, but the girl dexterously withdrew them from his clutch and moved a little further back, her face flushing proudly. "Oh, will it not come to me? Cruel hand!" and he rolled his little eyes with an absurdly sentimental air of reproach. "It is shy—it will not clasp the hand of its protector! Do not be afraid, Froken!. . . I, Charles Dyceworthy, am not the man to trifle with your young affections! Let them rest where they have flown! I accept them! Yea!. . . in spite of wrath and error and moral destitution,—my spirit inclineth towards you,—in the language of carnal men, I love you! More than this, I am willing to take you as my lawful wife—"

He broke off abruptly, somewhat startled at the bitter scorn of the flashing eyes that, like two quivering stars, were blazing upon him. Her voice, clear as a bell ringing in frosty air, cut through the silence like a sweep of a sword-blade.

"How dare you!" she said, with a wrathful thrill in her low, intense tones. "How dare you come here to insult me!"

Insult her! He,—the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy,—considered guilty of insult in offering honorable marriage to a mere farmer's daughter! He could not believe his own ears,—and in his astonishment he looked up at her. Looking, he recoiled and shrank into himself, like a convicted knave before some queenly accuser. The whole form of the girl seemed to dilate with indignation. From her proud mouth, arched like a bow, sprang barbed arrows of scorn that flew straightly and struck home.

"Always I have guessed what you wanted," she went on in that deep, vibrating tone which had such a rich quiver of anger within it; "but I never thought yon would—" She paused, and a little disdainful laugh broke from her lips. "You would make ME your wife—ME? You think ME likely to accept such an offer?" And she drew herself up with a superb gesture, and regarded him fixedly.

"Oh, pride, pride!" murmured the unabashed Dyceworthy, recovering from the momentary abasement into which he had been thrown by her look and manner. "How it overcometh our natures and mastereth our spirits! My dear, my dearest Froken,—I fear you do not understand me! Yet it is natural that you should not; you were not prepared for the offer of my—my affections,"—and he beamed all over with benevolence,—"and I can appreciate a maidenly and becoming coyness, even though it assume the form of a repellant and unreasonable anger. But take courage, my—my dear girl!—our Lord forbid that I should wantonly play with the delicate emotions of your heart! Poor little heart! does it flutter?" and Mr. Dyceworthy leered sweetly. "I will give it time to recover itself! Yes, yes! a little time! and then you will put that pretty hand in mine"—here he drew nearer to her, "and with one kiss we will seal the compact!"

And he attempted to steal his arm round her waist, but the girl sprang back indignantly, and pulling down a thick branch of the clambering prickly roses from the porch, held it in front of her by way of protection. Mr. Dyceworthy laughed indulgently.

"Very pretty—very pretty indeed!" he mildly observed, eyeing her as she stood at bay barricaded by the roses. "Quite a picture! There, there! do not be frightened,—such shyness is very natural! We will embrace in the Lord another day! In the meantime one little word— THE word—will suffice me,—yea, even one little smile,—to show me that you understand my words,—that you love me"—here he clasped his plump hands together in flabby ecstasy—"even as you are loved!"

His absurd attitude,—the weak, knock-kneed manner in which his clumsy legs seemed, from the force of sheer sentiment, to bend under his weighty body, and the inanely amatory expression of his puffy countenance, would have excited most women to laughter,—and Thelma was perfectly conscious of his utterly ridiculous appearance, but she was too thoroughly indignant to take the matter in a humorous light.

"Love you!" she exclaimed, with a movement of irrepressible loathing. "You must be mad! I would rather die than marry you!"

Mr. Dyceworthy's face grew livid and his little eyes sparkled vindictively,—but he restrained his inward rage, and merely smiled, rubbing his hands softly one against the other.

"Let us be calm!" he said soothingly. "Whatever we do, let us be calm! Let us not provoke one another to wrath! Above all things, let us, in a spirit of charity and patience, reason out this matter without undue excitement. My ears have most painfully heard your last words, which, taken literally, might mean that you reject my honorable offer. The question is, DO they mean this? I cannot,—I will not believe that you would foolishly stand in the way of your own salvation,"—and he shook his head with doleful gentleness. "Moreover, Froken Thelma, though it sorely distresses me to speak of it,—it is my duty, as a minister of the Lord, to remind you that an honest marriage,—a marriage of virtue and respectability such as I propose, is the only way to restore your reputation,—which, alas! is sorely damaged, and—"

Mr. Dyceworthy stopped abruptly, a little alarmed, as she suddenly cast aside the barrier of roses and advanced toward him, her blue eyes blazing.

"My reputation!" she said haughtily. "Who speaks of it?"

"Oh dear, dear me!" moaned the minister pathetically. "Sad!. . . very sad to see so ungovernable a temper, so wild and untrained a disposition! Alas, alas! how frail we are without the Lord's support,—without the strong staff of the Lord's mercy to lean upon! Not I, my poor child, not I, but the whole village speaks of you; to you the ignorant people attribute all the sundry evils that of late have fallen sorely upon them,—bad harvests, ill-luck with the fishing, poverty, sickness,"—here Mr. Dyceworthy pressed the tips of his fingers delicately together, and looked at her with a benevolent compassion,—"and they call it witchcraft,—yes! strange, very strange! But so it is,—ignorant as they are, such ignorance is not easily enlightened,—and though I," he sighed, "have done my poor best to disabuse their minds of the suspicions against you, I find it is a matter in which I, though a humble mouthpiece of the Gospel, am powerless—quite powerless!"

She relaxed her defiant attitude, and moved away from him; the shadow of a smile was on her lips.

"It is not my fault if the people are foolish," she said coldly; "I have never done harm to any one that I know of." And turning abruptly, she seemed about to enter the house, but the minister dexterously placed himself in her way, and barred her passage.

"Stay, oh, stay!" he exclaimed with unctuous fervor. "Pause, unfortunate girl, ere you reject the strong shield and buckler that the Lord has, in His great mercy, offered you, in my person! For I must warn you,—Froken Thelma, I must warn you seriously of the danger you run! I will not pain you by referring to the grave charges brought against your father, who is, alas! in spite of my spiritual wrestling with the Lord for his sake, still no better than a heathen savage; no! I will say nothing of this. But what,—what shall I say,"—here he lowered his voice to a tone of mysterious and weighty reproach,—"what shall I say of your most unseemly and indiscreet companionship with these worldly young men who are visiting the Fjord for their idle pastime? Ah dear, dear! This is indeed a heavy scandal and a sore burden to my soul,—for up to this time I have, in spite of many faults in your disposition, considered you were at least of a most maidenly and decorous deportment,—but now—now! to think that you should, of your own free will and choice, consent to be the plaything of this idle stroller from the wicked haunts of fashion,—the hour's toy of this Sir Philip Errington! Froken Thelma, I would never have believed it of you!" And he drew himself up with ponderous and sorrowful dignity.

A burning blush had covered Thelma's face at the mention of Errington's name, but it soon faded, leaving her very pale. She changed her position so that she confronted Mr. Dyceworthy,—her clear blue eyes regarded him steadfastly.

"Is this what is said of me?" she asked calmly.

"It is,—it is, most unfortunately!" returned the minister, shaking his bullet-like head a great many times; then, with a sort of elephantine cheerfulness, he added, "but what matter? There is time to remedy these things. I am willing to set myself as a strong barrier against the evil noises of rumor! Am I selfish or ungenerous? The Lord forbid it! No matter how _I_ am compromised, no matter how _I_ am misjudged,—I am still willing to take you as my lawful wife Froken Thelma,—but," and here he shook his forefinger at her with a pretended playfulness, "I will permit no more converse with Sir Philip Errington; no, no! I cannot allow it!. . . I cannot, indeed!"

She still looked straight at him,—her bosom rose and fell rapidly with her passionate breath, and there was such an eloquent breath of scorn in her face that he winced under it as though struck by a sharp scourge.

"You are not worth my anger!" she said slowly, this time without a tremor in her rich voice. "One must have something to be angry with, and you—you are nothing! Neither man nor beast,—for men are brave, and beasts tell no lies! Your wife! I! "and she laughed aloud,—then with a gesture of command, "Go!" she exclaimed, "and never let me see your face again!"

The clear scornful laughter,—the air of absolute authority with which she spoke,—would have stung the most self-opinionated of men, even though his conscience were enveloped in a moral leather casing of hypocrisy and arrogance. And, notwithstanding his invariable air of mildness, Mr. Dyceworthy had a temper. That temper rose to a white heat just now,—every drop of blood receded from his countenance,—and his soft hands clenched themselves in a particularly ugly and threatening manner. Yet he managed to preserve his suave composure.

"Alas, alas!" he murmured. "How sorely my soul is afflicted to see you thus, Froken! I am amazed—I am distressed! Such language from your lips! oh fie, fie! And has it come to this! And must I resign the hope I had of saving your poor soul? and must I withdraw my spiritual protection from you?" This he asked with a suggestive sneer of his prim mouth,—and then continued, "I must—alas, I must! My conscience will not permit me to do more than pray for you! And as is my duty, I shall, in a spirit of forbearance and charity, speak warningly to Sir Philip concerning—"

But Thelma did not permit him to finish his sentence. She sprang forward like a young leopardess, and with a magnificent outward sweep of her arm motioned him down the garden path.

"Out of my sight,—COWARD!" she cried, and then stood waiting for him to obey her, her whole frame vibrating with indignation like a harp struck too roughly. She looked so terribly beautiful, and there was such a suggestive power in that extended bare white arm of hers, that the minister, though quaking from head to heel with disappointment and resentment, judged it prudent to leave her.

"Certainly, I will take my departure, Froken!" he said meekly, while his teeth glimmered wolfishly through his pale lips, in a snarl more than a smile. "It is best you should be alone to recover yourself— from this—this undue excitement! I shall not repeat my—my—offer; but I am sure your good sense will—in time—show you how very unjust and hasty you have been in this matter—and—and you will be sorry! Yes, indeed! I am quite sure you will be sorry! I wish you good day, Froken Thelma!"

She made him no reply, and he turned from the house and left her, strolling down the flower-bordered path as though he were in the best of all possible moods with himself and the universe. But, in truth, he muttered a heavy oath under his breath—an oath that was by no means in keeping with his godly and peaceful disposition. Once, as he walked, he looked back,—and saw the woman he coveted now more than ever, standing erect in the porch, tall, fair and loyal in her attitude, looking like some proud empress who had just dismissed an unworthy vassal. A farmer's daughter! and she had refused Mr. Dyceworthy with disdain! He had much ado to prevent himself shaking his fist at her!

"The lofty shall be laid low, and the stiff-necked shall be humbled," he thought, as with a vicious switch of his stick he struck off a fragrant head of purple clover. "Conceited fool of a girl! Hopes to be 'my lady' does she? She had better take care!"

Here he stopped abruptly in his walk as if a thought had struck him,—a malignant joy sparkled in his eyes, and he flourished his stick triumphantly in the air. "I'll have her yet!" he exclaimed half-aloud. "I'll set Lovisa on her!" And his countenance cleared; he quickened his pace like a man having some pressing business to fulfill, and was soon in his boat, rowing towards Bosekop with unaccustomed speed and energy.

Meanwhile Thelma stood motionless where he had left her,—she watched the retreating form of her portly suitor till he had altogether disappeared,—then she pressed one hand on her bosom, sighed, and laughed a little. Glancing at the crucifix so lately restored to her, she touched it with her lips and fastened it to a small silver chain she wore, and then a shadow swept over her fair face that made it strangely sad and weary. Her lips quivered pathetically; she shaded her eyes with her curved fingers as though the sunlight hurt her,—then with faltering steps she turned away from the warm stretch of garden, brilliant with blossom, and entered the house. There was a sense of outrage and insult upon her, and though in her soul she treated Mr. Dyceworthy's observations with the contempt they deserved, his coarse allusion to Sir Philip Errington had wounded her more than she cared to admit to herself. Once in the quiet sitting-room, she threw herself on her knees by her father's arm-chair, and laying her proud little golden head down on her folded arms, she broke into a passion of silent tears.

Who shall unravel the mystery of a woman's weeping? Who shall declare whether it is a pain or a relief to the overcharged heart? The dignity of a crowned queen is capable of utterly dissolving and disappearing in a shower of tears, when Love's burning finger touches the pulse and marks its slow or rapid beatings. And Thelma wept as many of her sex weep, without knowing why, save that all suddenly she felt herself most lonely and forlorn like Sainte Beuve's-

"Colombo gemissante, Qui demande par pitie Sa moitie, Sa moitie loin d'elle absente!"

CHAPTER XII.


    "A wicked will,
     A woman's will; a cankered grandame's will!"
 
                                King John.

"By Jove!"

And Lorimer, after uttering this unmeaning exclamation, was silent out of sheer dismay. He stood hesitating and looking in at the door of the Guldmar's sitting-room, and the alarming spectacle he saw was the queenly Thelma down on the floor in an attitude of grief,— Thelma giving way to little smothered sobs of distress,—Thelma actually crying! He drew a long breath and stared, utterly bewildered. It was a sight for which he was unprepared,—he was not accustomed to women's tears. What should he do? Should he cough gently to attract her attention, or should he retire on tip-toe and leave her to indulge her grief as long as she would, without making any attempt to console her? The latter course seemed almost brutal, yet he was nearly deciding upon it, when a slight creak of the door against which he leaned, caused her to look up suddenly. Seeing him, she rose quickly from her desponding position and faced him, her cheeks somewhat deeply flushed and her eyes glittering feverishly.

"Mr. Lorimer!" she exclaimed, forcing a faint smile to her quivering lips. "You here? Why, where are the others?"

"They are coming on after me," replied Lorimer, advancing into the room, and diplomatically ignoring the girl's efforts to hide the tears that still threatened to have their way. "But I was sent in advance to tell you not to be frightened. There has been a slight accident—"

She grew very pale. "Is it my rather?" she asked tremblingly. "Sir Philip—"

"No, no!" answered Lorimer reassuringly. "It is nothing serious, really, upon my honor! Your father's all right,—so is Phil,—our lively friend Pierre is the victim. The fact is, we've had some trouble with Sigurd. I can't think what has come to the boy! He was as amiable as possible when we started, but after we had climbed about half-way up the mountain, he took it into his head to throw stones about rather recklessly. It was only fun, he said. Your father tried to make him leave off, but he was obstinate. At last, in a particularly bright access of playfulness, he got hold of a large flint, and nearly put Phil's eye out with it,—Phil dodged it, and it flew straight at Duprez, splitting open his cheek in rather an unbecoming fashion—Don't look so horrified, Miss Guldmar,—it is really nothing!"

"Oh, but indeed it is something!" she said, with true womanly anxiety in her voice. "Poor fellow! I am so sorry! Is he much hurt? Does he suffer?"

"Pierre? Oh, no, not a bit of it! He's as jolly as possible! We bandaged him up in a very artistic fashion; he looks quite interesting, I assure you. His beauty's spoilt for a time, that's all. Phil thought you might be alarmed when you saw us bringing home the wounded,—that is why I came on to tell you all about it."

"But what can be the matter with Sigurd?" asked the girl, raising her hand furtively to dash off a few teardrops that still hung on her long lashes. "And where is he?"

"Ah, that I can't tell you!" answered Lorimer. "He is perfectly incomprehensible to-day. As soon as he saw the blood flowing from Duprez's cheek, he tittered a howl as if some one had shot him, and away he rushed into the woods as fast as he could go. We called him, and shouted his name till we were hoarse,—all no use! He wouldn't come back. I suppose he'll find his way home by himself?"

"Oh, yes," said Thelma gravely. "But when he comes I will scold him very much! It is not like him to be so wild and cruel. He will understand me when I tell him how wrong he has been."

"Oh, don't break his heart, poor little chap!" said Lorimer easily. "Your father has given him a terrible scolding already. He hasn't got his wits about him you know,—he can't help being queer sometimes. But what have YOU been doing with yourself during our absence?" And he regarded her with friendly scrutiny. "You were crying when I came in. Now, weren't you? "

She met his gaze quite frankly. "Yes!" she replied, with a plaintive thrill in her voice. "I could not help it! My heart ached and the tears came. Somehow I felt that everything was wrong,—and that it was all my fault—"

"Your fault!" murmured Lorimer, astonished. "My dear Miss Guldmar, what do you mean? What IS your fault?"

"Everything!" she answered sadly, with a deep sigh. "I am very foolish; and I am sure I often do wrong without meaning it. Mr. Dyceworthy has been here and—" she stopped abruptly, and a wave of color flushed her face.

Lorimer laughed lightly. "Dyceworthy!" he exclaimed. "The mystery is explained! You have been bored by 'the good religious,' as Pierre calls him. You know what BORING means now, Miss Guldmar, don't you?" She smiled slightly, and nodded." The first time you visited the Eulalie, you didn't understand the word, I remember,—ah!" and he shook his head—"if you were in London society, you'd find that expression very convenient,—it would come to your lips pretty frequently, I can tell you!"

"I shall never see London," she said, with a sort of resigned air. "You will all go away very soon, and I—I shall be lonely—"

She bit her lips in quick vexation, as her blue eyes filled again with tears in spite of herself.

Lorimer turned away and pulled a chair to the open window.

"Come and sit down here," he said invitingly. "We shall be able to see the others coming down the hill. Nothing like fresh air for blowing away the blues." Then, as she obeyed him, he added, "What has Dyceworthy been saying to you?"

"He told me I was wicked," she murmured; "and that all the people here think very badly of me. But that was not the worst"—and a little shudder passed over her—"there was something else—something that made me very angry—so angry!"—and here she raised her eyes with a gravely penitent air—" Mr. Lorimer, I do not think I have ever had so bad and fierce a temper before!"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Lorimer, with a broad smile. "You alarm me, Miss Guldmar! I had no idea you were a 'bad, fierce' person,—I shall get afraid of you—I shall, really!"

"Ah, you laugh!" and she spoke half-reproachfully. "You will not be serious for one little moment!"

"Yes I will! Now look at me," and he assumed a solemn expression, and drew himself up with an air of dignity. "I am all attention! Consider me your father-confessor. Miss Guldmar, and explain the reason of this 'bad, fierce' temper of yours."

She peeped at him shyly from under her silken lashes.

"It is more dreadful than you think," she answered in a low tone. "Mr. Dyceworthy asked me to marry him."

Lorimer's keen eyes flashed with indignation. This was beyond a jest,—and he clenched his fist as he exclaimed—

"Impudent donkey! What a jolly good thrashing he deserves!. . . and I shouldn't be surprised if he got it one of these days! And so, Miss Guldmar,"—and he studied her face with some solicitude—"you were very angry with him?"

"Oh yes!" she replied, "but when I told him he was a coward, and that he must go away, he said some very cruel things—" she stopped, and blushed deeply; then, as if seized by some sudden impulse, she laid her small hand on Lorimer's and said in the tone of an appealing child, "you are very good and kind to me, and you are clever,—you know so much more than I do! You must help me,—you will tell me, will you not?. . . if it is wrong of me to like you all,—it is as if we had known each other a long time and I have been very happy with you and your friends. But you must teach me to behave like the girls you have seen in London,—for I could not bear that Sir Philip should think me wicked!"

"Wicked!" and Lorimer drew a long breath. "Good heavens! If you knew what Phil's ideas about you are, Miss Guldmar—"

"I do not wish to know," interrupted Thelma steadily. "You must quite understand me,—I am not clever to hide my thoughts, and—and- -, YOU are glad when you talk sometimes to Sir Philip, are you not?" He nodded, gravely studying every light and shadow on the fair, upturned, innocent face.

"Yes!" she continued with some eagerness, "I see you are! Well, it is the same with me,—I do love to hear him speak! You know how his voice is like music, and how his kind ways warm the heart,—it is pleasant to be in his company—I am sure you also find it so! But for me,—it seems it is wrong,—it is not wise for me to show when I am happy. I do not care what other people say,—but I would not have HIM think ill of me for all the world!"

Lorimer took her hand and held it in his with a most tender loyalty and respect. Her naive, simple words had, all unconsciously to herself, laid bare the secret of her soul to his eyes,—and though his heart beat with a strange sickening sense of unrest that flavored of despair, a gentle reverence filled him, such as a man might feel if some little snow-white shrine, sacred to purity and peace, should be suddenly unveiled before him.

"My dear Miss Guldmar," he said earnestly, "I assure you, you have no cause to be uneasy! You must not believe a word Dyceworthy says— every one with a grain of common sense can see what a liar and hypocrite he is! And as for you, you never do anything wrong,—don't imagine such nonsense! I wish there were more women like you!"

"Ah, that is very kind of you!" half laughed the girl, still allowing her hand to rest in his. "But I do not think everybody would have such a good opinion." They both started, and their hands fell asunder as a shadow darkened the room, and Sir Philip stood before them.

"Excuse me!" he said stiffly, lifting his hat with ceremonious politeness. "I ought to have knocked at the door—I—"

"Why?" asked Thelma, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes—why indeed?" echoed Lorimer, with a frank look at his friend.

"I am afraid,"—and for once the generally good-humored Errington looked positively petulant—"I am afraid I interrupted a pleasant conversation!" And he gave a little forced laugh of feigned amusement, but evident vexation.

"And if it was pleasant, shall you not make it still more so?" asked Thelma, with timid and bewitching sweetness, though her heart beat very fast,—she was anxious. Why was Sir Philip so cold and distant? He looked at her, and his pent-up passion leaped to his eyes and filled them with a glowing and fiery tenderness,—her head drooped suddenly, and she turned quickly, to avoid that searching, longing gaze. Lorimer glanced from one to the other with, a slight feeling of amusement.

"Well Phil," he inquired lazily, "how did you get here so soon? You must have glided into the garden like a ghost, for I never heard you coming."

"So I imagine!" retorted Errington, with, an effort to be sarcastic, in which he utterly failed as he met his friend's eyes,—then after a slight and somewhat embarrassed pause he added more mildly! "Duprez cannot get on very fast,—his wound still bleeds, and he feels rather faint now and then. I don't think we bandaged him up properly, and I came on to see if Britta could prepare something for him."

"But you will not need to ask Britta," said Thelma quietly, with a pretty air of authority, "for I shall myself do all for Mr. Duprez. I understand well how to cure his wound, and I do think he will like me as well as Britta." And, hearing footsteps approaching, she looked out at the window. "Here they come!" she exclaimed. "Ah, poor Monsieur Pierre! he does look very pale! I will go and meet them."

And she hurried from the room, leaving the two young men together. Errington threw himself into Olaf Guldmar's great arm-chair, with a slight sigh.

"Well?" said Lorimer inquiringly.

"Well!" he returned somewhat gruffly.

Lorimer laughed, and crossing the room, approached him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Look here, old man!" he said earnestly, "don't be a fool! I know that 'love maketh men mad,' but I never supposed the lunacy would lead you to the undesirable point of distrusting your friend,—your true friend, Phil,—by all the Gods of the past and present!"

And he laughed again,—a little huskily this time, for there was a sudden unaccountable and unwished-for lump in his throat, and a moisture in his eyes which he had not bargained for. Philip looked up,—and silently held out his hand, which Lorimer as silently clasped. There was a moment's hesitation, and then the young baronet spoke out manfully.

"I'm ashamed of myself, George! I really am! But I tell you, when I came in and saw you two standing there,—you've no idea what a picture you made!. . . by Jove!. . . I was furious!" And he smiled. "I suppose I was jealous!"

"I suppose you were!" returned Lorimer amusedly.

"Novel sensation, isn't it? A sort of hot, prickly, 'have-at-thee- villain' sort of thing; must be frightfully exhausting! But why you should indulge this emotion at MY expense is what I cannot, for the life of me, understand!"

"Well," murmured Errington, rather abashed," you see, her hands were in yours—"

"As they will be again, and yet again, I trust!" said Lorimer with cheery fervor. "Surely you'll allow me to shake hands with your wife?"

"I say, George, be quiet!" exclaimed Philip warningly, as at that moment Thelma passed the window with Pierre Duprez leaning on her arm, and her father and Macfarlane following.

She entered the room with the stately step of a young queen,—her tall, beautiful figure forming a strong contrast to that of the narrow-shouldered little Frenchman, upon whom she smiled down with an air of almost maternal protection.

"You will sit here, Monsieur Duprez," she said, leading him to the bonde's arm-chair which Errington instantly vacated, "and father will bring you a good glass of wine. And the pain will be nothing when I have attended to that cruel wound. But I am so sorry,—so very sorry, to see you suffer!"

Pierre did indeed present rather a dismal spectacle. There was a severe cut on his forehead as well as his cheek; his lace was pale and streaked with blood, while the hastily-improvised bandages which were tied under his chin, by no means improved his personal appearance. His head ached with the pain, and his eyes smarted with the strong sunlight to which he had been exposed all the day, but his natural gaiety was undiminished, and he laughed as he answered—

"Chere Mademoiselle, you are too good to me! It is a piece of good fortune that Sigurd threw that stone—yes! since it brings me your pity! But do not trouble; a little cold water and a fresh handkerchief is all I need."

But Thelma was already practicing her own simple surgery for his benefit. With deft, soft fingers she laid bare the throbbing wound,- -washed and dressed it carefully and skillfully,—and used with all such exceeding gentleness, that Duprez closed his eyes in a sort of rapture during the operation, and wished it could last longer. Then taking the glass of wine her father brought in obedience to her order, she said in a tone of mild authority—

"Now, you will drink this Monsieur Pierre, and you will rest quite still till it is time to go back to the yacht; and tomorrow you will not feel any pain, I am sure. And I do think it will not be an ugly scar for long."

"If it is," answered Pierre, "I shall say I received it in a duel! Then I shall be great—glorious! and all the pretty ladies will love me!"

She laughed,—but looked grave a moment afterwards.

"You must never say what is not true," she said. "It is wrong to deceive any one,—even in a small matter."

Duprez gazed up at her wonderingly, feeling very much like a chidden child.

"Never say what is not true!" he thought. "Mon Dieu! what would become of my life?"

It was a new suggestion, and he reflected upon it with astonishment. It opened such a wide vista of impossibilities to his mind.

Meanwhile old Guldmar was engaged in pouring out wine for the other young men, talking all the time.

"I tell thee, Thelma mine," he said seriously, "something must be very wrong with our Sigurd. The poor lad has always been gentle and tractable, but to-day he was like some wild animal for mischief and hardihood. I grieve to see it! I fear the time may come when he may no longer be a safe servant for thee, child!"

"Oh, father!"—and the girl's voice was full of tender anxiety— "surely not! He is too fond of us to do us any harm—he is so docile and affectionate!"

"Maybe, maybe!" and the old farmer shook his head doubtfully. "But when the wits are away the brain is like a ship without ballast— there is no safe sailing possible. He would not mean any harm, perhaps,—and yet in his wild moods he might do it, and be sorry for it directly afterwards. 'Tis little use to cry when the mischief is done,—and I confess I do not like his present humor."

"By-the-by," observed Lorimer, "that reminds me! Sigurd has taken an uncommonly strong aversion to Phil. It's curious but it's a fact. Perhaps it is that which upsets his nerves?"

"I have noticed it myself," said Errington, "and I'm sorry for it, for I've done him no harm that I can remember. He certainly asked me to go away from the Altenfjord, and I refused,—I'd no idea he had any serious meaning in his request. But it's evident he can't endure my company."

"Ah, then!" said Thelma simply and sorrowfully, "he must be very ill,—because it is natural for every one to like you."

She spoke in perfect good faith and innocence of heart; but Errington's eyes flashed and he smiled—one of those rare, tender smiles of his which brightened his whole visage.

"You are very kind to say so, Miss Guldmar!"

"It is not kindness; it is the truth!" she replied frankly.

At that moment a very rosy face and two sparkling eyes peered in at the door.

"Yes, Britta!" Thelma smiled; "we are quite ready!"

Whereupon the face disappeared, and Olaf Guldmar led the way into the kitchen, which was at the same time the dining-room, and where a substantial supper was spread on the polished pine table.

The farmer's great arm-chair was brought in for Duprez, who, though he declared he was being spoilt by too much attention, seemed to enjoy it immensely,—and they were all, including Britta, soon clustered round the hospitable board whereon antique silver and quaint glasses of foreign make sparkled bravely, their effect enhanced by the snowy whiteness of the homespun table-linen.

A few minutes set them all talking gaily. Macfarlane vied with the ever-gallant Duprez in making a few compliments to Britta, who was pretty and engaging enough to merit attention, and who, after all, was something more than a mere servant, possessing, as she did, a great deal of her young mistress's affection and confidence, and being always treated by Guldmar himself as one of the family.

There was no reserve or coldness in the party, and the hum of their merry voices echoed up to the cross-rafters of the stout wooden ceiling and through the open door and window, from whence a patch of the gorgeous afternoon sky could be seen, glimmering redly, like a distant lake of fire. They were in the full enjoyment of their repast, and the old farmer's rollicking "Ha, ha, ha!" in response to a joke of Lorimer's, had just echoed jovially through the room, when a strong, harsh voice called aloud—"Olaf Guldmar!"

There was a sudden silence. Each one looked at the other in surprise. Again the voice called—"Olaf Guldmar!"

"Well!" roared the bonde testily, turning sharply round in his chair, "who calls me?"

"I do!" and the tall, emaciated figure of a woman advanced and stood on the threshold, without actually entering the room. She dropped the black shawl that enveloped her, and, in so doing, disordered her hair, which fell in white, straggling locks about her withered features, and her dark eyes gleamed maliciously as she fixed them on the assembled party. Britta, on perceiving her, uttered a faint shriek, and without considering the propriety of her action, buried her nut-brown curls and sparkling eyes in Duprez's coat-sleeve, which, to do the Frenchman justice, was exceedingly prompt to receive and shelter its fair burden. The bonde rose from his chair, and his face grew stern.

"What do you here, Lovisa Elsland? Have you walked her eyes, she went to sleep. They told me it was death, since then I have known that death is beautiful!"

"Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt! All very proper on your part, I am sure. But concerning this same image of which I came to speak,—it is most imperative that you should be brought to recognize it as a purely carnal object, unfitting a maiden's eyes to rest upon. The true followers of the Gospel are those who strive to forget the sufferings of our dear Lord as much as possible,—or to think of them only in spirit. The minds of sinners, alas! are easily influenced,—and it is both unseemly and dangerous to gaze freely upon the carven semblance of the Lord's limbs! Yea, truly, it hath oft been considered as damnatory to the soul,—more especially in the cases of women immured as nuns, who encourage themselves in an undue familiarity with our Lord, by gazing long and earnestly upon his body nailed to the accursed tree."

Here Mr. Dyceworthy paused for breath. Thelma was silent, but a faint smile gleamed on her face.

"It is the sign of peace and salvation," she said steadily, "to me, at least. You waste your words, Mr. Dyceworthy; I am a Catholic."

"Oh, say not so!" exclaimed the minister, now thoroughly roused to a pitch of unctuous enthusiasm. "Say beat me and starve me? You wicked old woman! How dare you come here? I'm ashamed of you! You frightened my mother to death—you know you did! .. . . and now you want to do the same to me! But you won't—I can tell you! I'm old enough to do as I like, and I'd rather die than live with you!"

Then, overcome by excitement and temper, she burst out crying, heedless of Pierre Duprez's smiling nods of approval, and the admiring remarks he was making under his breath, such as—"Brava, ma petite! C'est bien fait! c'est joliment bien dit! Mais je crois bien!"

Lovisa seemed unmoved; she raised her head and looked, at Guldmar.

"Is this your answer?" she demanded.

"By the sword of Odin!" cried the bonde, "the woman must be mad! MY answer? The girl has spoken for herself,—and plainly enough too! Art thou deaf, Lovisa Elsland? or are thy wits astray?"

"My hearing is very good," replied Lovisa calmly, "and my mind, Olaf Guldmar, is as clear as yours. And, thanks to your teaching in mine early days,"—she paused and looked keenly at him, but he appeared to see no meaning in her allusion,—"I know the English tongue, of which we hear far too much,—too often! There is nothing Britta has said that I do not understand. But I know well it is not the girl herself that speaks—it is a demon in her,—and that demon shall be cast forth before I die! Yea, with the help of the Lord I shall—" She stopped abruptly and fixed her eyes, glowing with fierce wrath, on Thelma. The girl met her evil glance with a gentle surprise. Lovisa smiled malignantly.

"You know me, I think!" said Lovisa. "You have seen me before?"

"Often," answered Thelma mildly. "I have always been sorry for you."

"Sorry for me!" almost yelled the old woman. "Why—why are you sorry for me?"

"Do not answer her, child!" interrupted Guldmar angrily. "She is mad as the winds of a wild winter, and will but vex thee."

But Thelma laid her hand soothingly on her father's, and smiled peacefully as she turned her fair face again towards Lovisa.

"Why?" she said. "Because you seem so very lonely and sad—and that must make you cross with every one who is happy! And it is a pity, I think, that you do not let Britta alone—you only quarrel with each other when you meet. And would you not like her to think kindly of you when you are dead?"

Lovisa seemed choking with anger,—her face worked into such hideous grimaces, that all present, save Thelma, were dismayed at her repulsive aspect.

"When I am dead!" she muttered hoarsely. "So you count upon that already, do you? Ah!. . . but do you know which of us shall die first!" Then raising her voice with an effort she exclaimed—

"Stand forth, Thelma Guldmar! Let me see you closely—face to face!"

Errington said something in a low tone, and the bonde would have again interfered, but Thelma shook her head, smiled and rose from her seat at table.

"Anything to soothe her, poor soul!" she whispered, as she left Errington's side and advanced towards Lovisa till she was within reach of the old woman's hand. She looked like some grand white angel, who had stepped down from a cathedral altar, as she stood erect and stately with a gravely pitying expression in her lovely eyes, confronting the sable-draped, withered, leering hag, who fixed upon her a steady look of the most cruel and pitiless hatred.

"Daughter of Satan!" said Lovisa then, in intense piercing tones that somehow carried with them a sense of awe and horror. "Creature, in whose veins the fire of hell burns without ceasing,—my CURSE upon you! My curse upon the beauty of your body—may it grow loathsome in the sight of all men! May those who embrace you, embrace misfortune and ruin!—may love betray you and forsake you! May your heart be broken even as mine has been!—may your bridal bed be left deserted!—may your children wither and pine from their hour of birth! Sorrow track you to the grave!—may your death be lingering and horrible! God be my witness and fulfill my words!"

And, raising her arms with wild gesture, she turned and left the house. The spell of stupefied silence was broken with her disappearance. Old Guldmar prepared to rush after her and force her to retract her evil speech,—Errington was furious, and Britta cried bitterly. The lazy Lorimer was excited and annoyed.

"Fetch her back," he said, "and I'll dance upon her!"

But Thelma stood where the old woman had left her—she smiled faintly, but she was very pale. Errington approached her,—she turned to him and stretched out her hands with a little appealing gesture.

"My friend," she said softly, "do you think I deserve so many curses? Is there something about me that is evil?"

What Errington would have answered is doubtful,—his heart beat wildly—he longed to draw those little hands in his own, and cover them with passionate kisses,—but he was intercepted by old Guldmar, who caught his daughter in his arms and hugged her closely, his silvery beard mingling with the gold of her rippling hair.

"Never fear a wicked tongue, my bird!" said the old man fondly. "There is naught of harm that would touch thee either on earth or in heaven,—and a foul-mouthed curse must roll off thy soul like water from a dove's wing! Cheer thee, my darling—cheer thee! What! Thine own creed teaches thee that the gentle Mother of Christ, with her little white angels round her, watches over all innocent maids,—and thinkest thou she will let an old woman's malice and envy blight thy young days? No, no! THOU accursed?" And the bonde laughed loudly to hide the tears that moistened his keen eyes. "Thou art the sweetest blessing of my heart, even as thy mother was before thee! Come, come! Raise thy pretty head—here are these merry lads growing long- faced,—and Britta is weeping enough salt water to fill a bucket! One of thy smiles will set us all right again,—ay, there now!"—as she looked up and, meeting Philip's eloquent eyes, blushed, and withdrew herself gently from her father's arms,—"Let us finish our supper and think no more of yonder villainous old hag—she is crazy, I believe, and knows not what she says half her time. Now, Britta, cease thy grunting and sighing—'twill spoil thy face and will not mend the hole in thy grandmother's brain!"

"Wicked, spiteful, ugly old thing!" sobbed Britta; "I'll never, never, never forgive her!" Then, running to Thelma, she caught her hand and kissed it affectionately. "Oh, my dear, my dear! To think she should have cursed you, what dreadful, dreadful wickedness! Oh!" and Britta looked volumes of wrath. "I could have beaten her black and blue!"

Her vicious eagerness was almost comic—every one laughed, including Thelma, though she pressed the hand of her little servant very warmly.

"Oh fie!" said Lorimer seriously. "Little girls mustn't whip their grandmothers; it's specially forbidden in the Prayer-book, isn't it, Phil?"

"I'm sure I don't know!" replied Errington merrily. "I believe there is something to the effect that a man may not marry his grandmother- -perhaps that is what you mean?"

"Ah, no doubt!" murmured Lorimer languidly, as, with the others, he resumed his seat at the supper-table. "I knew there was a special mandate respecting one's particularly venerable relations, with a view to self-guidance in case they should prove troublesome, like Britta's good grand-mamma. What a frightfully picturesque mouthing old lady she is!"

"She is la petroleuse of Norway!" exclaimed Duprez. "She would make an admirable dancer in the Carmagnole!"

Macfarlane, who had preserved a discreet silence throughout the whole scene, here looked up.

"She's just a screech-owl o' mistaken piety," he said. "She minds me o' a glowerin' auld warlock of an aunt o' mine in Glasgie, wha sits in her chair a' day wi' ae finger on the Bible. She says she's gaun straight to heaven by special invitation o' the Lord, leavin' a' her blood relations howlin' vainly after her from their roastin' fires down below. Ma certes! she'll give ye a good rousin' curse if ye like! She's cursed me ever since I can remember her,—cursed me in and out from sunrise to sunset,—but I'm no the worse for't as yet,- -an' it's dootful whether she's any the better."

"And yet Lovisa Elsland used to be as merry and lissom a lass as ever stepped," said Guldmar musingly. "I remember her well when both she and I were young. I was always on the sea at that time,—never happy unless the waves tossed me and my vessel from one shore to another. I suppose the restless spirit of my fathers was in me. I was never contented unless I saw some new coast every six months or so. Well! . . . Lovisa was always foremost among the girls of the village who watched me leave the Fjord,—and however long or short a time I might be absent, she was certain to be on the shore when my ship came sailing home again. Many a joke I have cracked with her and her companions—and she was a bonnie enough creature to look at then, I tell you,—though now she is like a battered figure-head on a wreck. Her marriage, spoiled her temper,—her husband was as dark and sour a man as could be met with in all Norway, and when he and his fishing-boat sank in a squall off the Lofoden Islands, I doubt if she shed many tears for his loss. Her only daughter's husband went down in the same storm,—and he but three months wedded,—and the girl,—Britta's mother,—pined and pined, and even when her child was born took no sort of comfort in it. She died four years after Britta's birth—her death was hastened, so I have heard, through old Lovisa's harsh treatment,—anyhow the little lass she left behind her had no very easy time of it all alone with her grandmother,—eh Britta?"

Britta looked up and shook her head emphatically.

"Then," went on Guldmar, "when my girl came back the last time from France, Britta chanced to see her, and, strangely enough,"—here he winked shrewdly—"took a fancy to her face,—odd, wasn't it? However, nothing would suit her but that she must be Thelma's handmaiden, and here she is. Now you know her history,—she would be happy enough if her grandmother would let her alone; but the silly old woman thinks the girl is under a spell, and that Thelma is the witch that works it;"—and the old farmer laughed. "There's a grain of truth in the notion too, but not in the way she has of looking at it."

"All women are witches!" said Duprez. "Britta is a little witch herself!"

Britta's rosy cheeks grew rosier at this, and she tossed her chestnut curls with an air of saucy defiance that delighted the Frenchman. He forgot his wounded cheek and his disfiguring bandages in the contemplation of the little plump figure, cased in its close- fitting scarlet bodice, and the tempting rosy lips that were in such close proximity to his touch.

"If it were not for those red hands!" he thought. "Dieu! what a charming child she would be! One would instantly kill the grandmother and kiss the granddaughter!"

And he watched her with admiration as she busied herself about the supper-table, attending to every one with diligence and care, but reserving her special services for Thelma, whom she waited on with a mingled tenderness, and reverence, that were both touching and pretty to see.

The conversation now became general, and nothing further occurred to disturb the harmony and hilarity of the party—only Errington seemed somewhat abstracted, and answered many questions that were put to him at haphazard, without knowing, or possibly caring, whether his replies were intelligible or incoherent. His thoughts were dreamlike and brilliant with fairy sunshine. He understood at last what poets meant by their melodious musings, woven into golden threads of song- -he seemed to have grasped some hitherto unguessed secret of his being—a secret that filled him with as much strange pain as pleasure. He felt as though he were endowed with a thousand senses,- -each one keenly alive and sensitive to the smallest touch,—and there was a pulsation in his blood that was new and beyond his control,—a something that beat wildly in his heart at the sound of Thelma's voice, or the passing flutter of her white garments near him. Of what use to disguise it from himself any longer? He loved her! The terrible, beautiful tempest of love had broken over his life at last; there was no escape from its thunderous passion and dazzling lightning glory.

He drew a sharp quick breath—the hum of the gay voices around him was more meaningless to his ears than the sound of the sea breaking on the beach below. He glanced at the girl—the fair and innocent creature who had, in his imagination, risen to a throne of imperial height, from whence she could bestow on him death or salvation. How calm she seemed! She was listening with courteous patience to a long story of Macfarlane's whose Scotch accent rendered it difficult for her to understand. She was pale, Philip thought, and her eyes were heavy; but she smiled now and then,—such a smile! Even so sweetly might the "kiss-worthy" lips of the Greek Aphrodite part, could that eloquent and matchless marble for once breathe into life. He looked at her with a sort of fear. Her hands held his fate. What if she could not love him? What if he must lose her utterly? This idea overpowered him; his brain whirled, and he suddenly pushed away his untasted glass of wine, and rose abruptly from the table, heedless of the surprise his action excited.

"Hullo, Phil, where are you off to?" cried Lorimer. "Wait for me!"

"Tired of our company, my lad?" said Guldmar kindly, "You've had a long day of it,—and what with the climbing and the strong air, no doubt you'll be glad to turn in."

"Upon my life, sir," answered Errington, with some confusion, "I don't know why I got up just now! I was thinking,—I'm rather a dreamy sort of fellow sometimes, and—"

"He was asleep, and doesn't want to own it!" interrupted Lorimer sententiously. "You will excuse him; he means well! He looks rather seedy. I think, Mr. Guldmar, we'll be off to the yacht. By the way, you're coming with us to-morrow, aren't you?"

"Oh yes," said Thelma. "We will sail with you round by Soroe,—it is weird and dark and grand; but I think it is beautiful. And there are many stories of the elves and berg-folk, who are said to dwell there among the deep ravines. Have you heard about the berg-folk?" she continued, addressing herself to Errington, unaware of the effort he was making to appear cool and composed in her presence. "No? Then I must tell you to-morrow."

They all walked out of the house into the porch, and while her father was interchanging farewells with the others, she looked at Sir Philip's grave face with some solicitude.

"I am afraid you are very tired, my friend?" she asked softly, "or your head aches,—and you suffer?"

He caught her hands swiftly and raised them to his lips.

"Would you care much,—would you care at all, if I suffered?" he murmured in a low tone.

Then before she could speak or move, he let go her hands again, and turned with his usual easy courtesy to Guldmar. "Then we may expect you without fail to-morrow, sir! Good night!"

"Good night, my lad!"

And with many hearty salutations the young men took their departure, raising their hats to Thelma as they turned down the winding path to the shore. She remained standing near her father,—and, when the sound of their footsteps had died away, she drew closer still and laid her head against his breast.

"Cold, my bird?" queried the old man. "Why, thou art shivering, child!—and yet the sunshine is as warm as wine. What ails thee?"

"Nothing, father!" And she raised her eyes, glowing and brilliant as stars. "Tell me,—do you think often of my mother now!"

"Often!" And Guldmar's fine resolute face grew sad and tender. "She is never absent from my mind! I see her night and day, ay! I can feel her soft arms clinging round my neck,—why dost thou ask so strange a question, little one? Is it possible to forget what has been once loved?"

Thelma was silent for many minutes. Then she kissed her father and said "good night." He held her by the hand and looked at her with a sort of vague anxiety.

"Art thou well, my child?" he asked. "This little hand burns like fire,—and thine eyes are too bright, surely, for sleep to visit them? Art sure that nothing ails thee?"

"Sure, quite sure," answered the girl with a strange, dreamy smile. "I am quite well,—and happy!"

And she turned to enter the house.

"Stay!" called the father. "Promise me thou wilt think no more of Lovisa!"

"I had nearly forgotten her," she responded. "Poor thing! She cursed me because she is so miserable, I suppose—all alone and unloved; it must be hard! Curses sometimes turn to blessings, father! Good night!"

And she ascended the one flight of wooden stairs in the house to her own bedroom—a little three-cornered place as clean and white as the interior of a shell. Never once glancing at the small mirror that seemed to invite her charms to reflect themselves therein, she went to the quaint latticed window and knelt down by it, folding her arms on the sill while she looked far out to the Fjord. She could see the English flag fluttering from the masts of the Eulalie; she could almost hear the steady plash of the oars wielded by Errington and his friends as they rowed themselves back to the yacht. Bright tears filled her eyes, and brimmed over, falling warmly on her folded hands.

"Would I care if you suffered?" she whispered. "Oh, my love!. . . my love!"

Then, as if afraid lest the very winds should have heard her half- breathed exclamation, she shut her window in haste, and a hot blush crimsoned her cheeks.

Undressing quickly, she slipped into her little white bed and, closing her eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of love in which all bright hopes reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet were in some strange way crossed with shadows which she had no power to disperse. And later on, when old Guldmar slumbered soundly, and the golden mid-night sunshine lit up every nook and gable of the farmhouse with its lustrous glory, making Thelma's closed lattice sparkle like a carven jewel,—a desolate figure lay prone on the grass beneath her window, with meagre pale face, and wide-open wild blue eyes upturned to the fiery brilliancy of the heavens. Sigurd had come home;—Sigurd was repentant, sorrowful, ashamed,—and broken-hearted.

CHAPTER XIII.


    "O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!
     Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime
     Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb
     Thine upward steps, and daily and by night
     To gaze beyond them and to search aright
     The far-off splendor of thy track sublime."
 
                    ERIC MACKAY'S Love-letters of a Violinist.

On the following morning the heat was intense,—no breath of wind stirred a ripple on the Fjord, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. Such hot weather was unusual for that part of Norway, and according to Valdemar Svensen, betokened some change. On board the Eulalie everything was ready for the trip to Soroe,—steam was getting up prior to departure,—and a group of red-capped sailors stood prepared to weigh the anchor as soon as the signal was given. Breakfast was over,—Macfarlane was in the saloon writing his journal, which he kept with great exactitude, and Duprez, who, on account of his wound, was considered something of an invalid, was seated in a lounge chair on deck, delightedly turning over a bundle of inflammatory French political journals received that morning. Errington and Lorimer were pacing the deck arm in arm, keeping a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the returning boat which had been sent off to fetch Thelma and her father. Errington looked vexed and excited,—Lorimer bland and convincing.

"I can't help it, Phil!" he said. "It's no use fretting and fuming at me. It was like Dyceworthy's impudence, of course,—but there's no doubt he proposed to her,—and it's equally certain that she rejected him. I thought I'd tell you you had a rival,—not in me, as you seemed to think yesterday,—but in our holy fat friend."

"Rival! pshaw!" returned Errington, with an angry laugh. "He is not worth kicking!"

"Possibly not! Still I have a presentiment that he's the sort of fellow that won't take 'no' for an answer. He'll dodge that poor girl and make her life miserable if he can, unless—"

"Unless what?" asked Philip quickly.

Lorimer stopped in his walk, and, leaning against the deck-railings, looked his friend straight in the eyes.

"Unless you settle the matter," he said with a slight effort. "You love her,—tell her so!"

Errington laid one hand earnestly on his shoulder.

"Ah, George, you don't understand!" he said in a low tone, while his face was grave and full of trouble. "I used to think I was fairly brave, but I find I am a positive coward. I dare not tell her! She— Thelma—is not like other women. You may think me a fool,—I dare say you do,—but I swear to you I am afraid to speak, because— because, old boy,—if she were to refuse me,—if I knew there was no hope—well, I don't want to be sentimental,—but my life would be utterly empty and worthless,—so useless, that I doubt if I should care to live it out to the bitter end!"

Lorimer heard him in silence,—a silence maintained partly out of sympathy, and partly that he might keep his own feelings well under control.

"But why persist in looking at the gloomy side of the picture?" he said at last. "Suppose she loves you?"

"Suppose an angel flew down from Heaven!" replied Philip, with rather a sad smile. "My dear fellow, who am I that I should flatter myself so far? If she were one of those ordinary women to whom marriage is the be-all and end-all of existence, it would be different—but she is not. Her thoughts are like those of a child or a poet,—why should I trouble them by the selfishness of my passion? for all passion IS selfish, even at its best. Why should I venture to break the calm friendship she may have for me, by telling her of a love which might prove unwelcome!"

Lorimer looked at him with gentle amusement depicted in his face.

"Phil, you are less conceited than I thought you were," he said, with a light laugh, "or else you are blind—blind as a bat, old man! Take my advice,—don't lose any more time about it. Make the 'king's daughter of Norroway' happy,. . . "and a brief sigh escaped him. "You are the man to do it. I am surprised at your density; Sigurd, the lunatic, has more perception. He sees which way the wind blows,- -and that's why he's so desperately unhappy. He thinks—and thinks rightly too—that he will lose his 'beautiful rose of the northern forest,' as he calls her,—and that you are to be the robber. Hence his dislike to you. Dear me!" and Lorimer lit a cigarette and puffed at it complacently. "It seems to me that my wits are becoming sharper as I grow older, and that yours, my dear boy,—pardon me!. . . are getting somewhat blunted, otherwise you would certainly have perceived—" he broke off abruptly.

"Well, go on!" exclaimed Philip eagerly, with flashing eyes. "Perceived what?"

Lorimer laughed. "That the boat containing your Sun-empress is coming along very rapidly, old fellow, and that you'd better make haste to receive her!"

This was the fact, and Duprez had risen from his chair and was waving his French newspaper energetically to the approaching visitors. Errington hastened to the gangway with a brighter flush than usual on his handsome face, and his heart beating with a new sense of exhilaration and excitement. If Lorimer's hints had any foundation of truth—if Thelma loved him ever so little—how wild a dream it seemed!. . . why not risk his fate? He resolved to speak to her that very day if opportunity favored him,—and, having thus decided, felt quite masterful and heroic about it.

This feeling of proud and tender elation increased when Thelma stepped on deck that morning and laid her hands in his. For, as he greeted her and her father, he saw at a glance that she was slightly changed. Some restless dream must have haunted her—or his hurried words beneath the porch, when he parted from her the previous evening, had startled her and troubled her mind. Her blue eyes were no longer raised to his in absolute candor,—her voice was timid, and she had lost something of her usual buoyant and graceful self- possession. But she looked lovelier than ever with that air of shy hesitation and appealing sweetness. Love had thrown his network of light about her soul and body till, like Keats's "Madeleine,"

"She seemed a splendid angel newly drest Save wings, for heaven!"

As soon as the Guldmars were on board, the anchor was weighed with many a cheery and musical cry from the sailors; the wheel revolved rapidly under Valdemar Svensen's firm hand,—and with a grand outward sweeping curtsy to the majestic Fjord she left behind her, the Eulalie steamed away, cutting a glittering line of white foam through the smooth water as she went, and threading her way swiftly among the clustering picturesque islands,—while the inhabitants of every little farm and hamlet on the shores, stopped for a while in their occupations to stare at the superb vessel, and to dreamily envy the wealth of the English Herren who could afford to pass the summer months in such luxury and idleness. Thelma seated herself at once by Duprez, and seemed glad to divert attention from herself to him.

"You are better, Monsieur Duprez, are you not?" she asked gently. "We saw Sigurd this morning; he came home last night. He is very, very sorry to have hurt you!"

"He need not apologize," said Duprez cheerfully. "I am delighted he gave me this scar, otherwise I am confident he would have put out the eye of Phil-eep. And that would have been a misfortune! For what would the ladies in London say if le beau Errington returned to them with one eye! Mon Dieu! they would all be en desespoir!"

Thelma looked up. Philip was standing at some little distance with Olaf Guldmar and Lorimer, talking and laughing gaily. His cap was slightly pushed off his forehead, and the sun shone on his thick dark-chestnut curls; his features, warmly colored by the wind and sea, were lit up with mirth, and his even white teeth sparkled in an irresistible smile of fascinating good-humor. He was the beau-ideal of the best type of Englishman, in the full tide of youth, health and good spirits.

"I suppose he is a great favorite with all those beautiful ladies?" she asked very quietly.

Something of gentle resignation in her tone struck the Frenchman's sense of chivalry; had she been like any ordinary woman, bent on conquest, he would have taken a mischievous delight in inventing a long list of fair ones supposed to be deeply enamored of Errington's good looks,—but this girl's innocent inquiring face inspired him with quite a different sentiment.

"Mais certainement!" he said frankly and emphatically. "Phil-eep is a favorite everywhere! Yet not more so with women than with men. I love him extremely—he is a charming boy! Then you see, chere Mademoiselle, he is rich,—very rich,—and there are so many pretty girls who are very poor,—naturally they are enchanted with our Errington—voyez-vous?"

"I do not understand," she said, with a puzzled brow. "It is not possible that they should like him better because he is rich. He would be the same man without money as with it—it makes no difference!"

"Perhaps not to you," returned Duprez, with a smile; "but to many it would make an immense difference! Chere Mademoiselle, it is a grand thing to have plenty of money,—believe me!"

Thelma shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps," she answered indifferently. "But one cannot spend much on one's self, after all. The nuns at Arles used to tell me that poverty was a virtue, and that to be very rich was to be very miserable. They were poor,—all those good women,—and they were always cheerful."

"The nuns! ah, mon Dieu!" cried Duprez. "The darlings know not the taste of joy—they speak of what they cannot understand! How should they know what it is to be happy or unhappy, when they bar their great convent doors against the very name of love!"

She looked at him, and her color rose.

"You always talk of love" she said, half reproachfully, "as if it were so common a thing! You know it is sacred—why will you speak as if it were all a jest?"

A strange emotion of admiring tenderness stirred Pierre's heart—he was very impulsive and impressionable.

"Forgive me!" he murmured penitently. Then he added suddenly, "You should have lived ages ago, ma belle,—the world of to-day will not suit you! You will be made very sorrowful in it, I assure you,—it is not a place for good women!"

She laughed. "You are morose," she said. "That is not like you! No one is good,—we all live to try and make ourselves better."

"What highly moral converse is going on here?" inquired Lorimer, strolling leisurely up to them. "Are you giving Duprez a lecture, Miss Guldmar? He needs it,—so do I. Please give me a scolding!"

And he folded his hands with an air of demure appeal.

A sunny smile danced in the girl's blue eyes. "Always you will be foolish! "she said. "One can never know you because I am sure you never show your real self to anybody. No,—I will not scold you, but I should like to find you out!"

"To find me out!" echoed Lorimer. "Why, what do you mean?"

She nodded her bright head with much sagacity.

"Ah, I do observe you often! There is something you hide; it is like when my father has tears in his eyes; he pretends to laugh, but the tears are there all the time. Now I see in you—" she paused, and her questioning eyes rested on his, seriously.

"This is interesting!" said Lorimer, lazily drawing a camp-stool opposite to her, and seating himself thereon. "I had no idea I was a human riddle. Can you read me, Miss Guldmar?"

"Yes," she answered slowly and meditatively. "Just a little. But I will not say anything; no—except this—that you are not altogether what you seem."

"Here, Phil!" called Lorimer, as he saw Errington approaching, arm in arm with Olaf Guldmar, "come and admire this young lady's power of perception. She declares I am not such a fool as I look!"

"Now," said Thelma, shaking her forefinger at him, "you know very well that I did not put it in that way. But is it not true, Sir Philip—" and she looked up for a moment, though her eyes drooped again swiftly under his ardent gaze, "is it not true that many people do hide their feelings, and pretend to be quite different to what they are?"

"I should say it was a very common fault," replied Errington. "It is a means of self-defense against the impertinent curiosity of outsiders. But Lorimer is free from it,—he has nothing to hide. At any rate, he has no secrets from me,—I'm sure of that!" And he clapped his hand heartily on his friend's shoulder.

Lorimer flushed slightly, but made no remark, and at that moment Macfarlane emerged from the saloon, where the writing of his journal had till now detained him. In the general handshaking and salutations which followed, the conversation took a different turn, for which Lorimer was devoutly thankful. His face was a tell-tale one,—and he was rather afraid of Philip's keen eyes. "I hope to Heaven he'll speak to her to-day," he thought, vexedly. "I hate being in suspense! My mind will be easier when I once know that he has gained his point,—and that there's not the ghost of a chance for any other fellow!"

Meanwhile the yacht skimmed along by the barren and rocky coast of Seiland; the sun was dazzling; yet there was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of unshed tears. A bank of nearly motionless clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of the Altenguard mountains, which now lay to the southward, as the vessel pursued her course. There was no wind; the flag on the mast flapped idly now and then with the motion of the yacht; and Thelma found herself too warm with her pretty crimson hood,—she therefore unfastened it and let the sunshine play on the uncovered gold of her hair. They had a superb view of the jagged glacier of Jedke,—black in some parts, and in others white with unmelted snow,—and seeming, as it rose straight up against the sky, to be the majestic monument of some giant Viking. Presently, at her earnest request, Errington brought his portfolio of Norwegian sketches for Thelma to look at; most of them were excellently well done, and elicited much admiration from the bonde.

"It is what I have wondered at all my life," said he, "that skill of the brush dipped in color. Pictures surprise me as much as poems. Ah, men are marvellous creatures, when they are once brought to understand that they ARE men,—not beasts! One will take a few words and harmonize them into a song or a verse that clings to the world for ever; another will mix a few paints and dab a brush in them, and give you a picture that generation after generation shall flock to see. It is what is called genius,—and genius is a sort of miracle. Yet I think it is fostered by climate a good deal,—the further north, the less inspiration. Warmth, color, and the lightness of heart that a generally bright sky brings, enlarges the brain and makes it capable of creative power."

"My dear sir," said Lorimer, "England does not possess these climatic advantages, and yet Shakespeare was an Englishman."

"He must have travelled," returned Guldmar positively. "No one will make me believe that the man never visited Italy. His Italian scenes prove it,—they are full of the place and the people. The whole of his works, full of such wonderful learning, and containing so many types of different nations, show,—to MY mind, at least,—that countries were his books of study. Why I, who am only a farmer and proprietor of a bit of Norwegian land,—I have learned many a thing from simply taking a glance at a new shore each year. That's the way I used to amuse myself when I was young,—now I am old, the sea tempts me less, and I am fonder of my arm-chair; yet I've seen a good deal in my time—enough to provide me with memories for my declining days. And it's a droll thing, too," he added, with a laugh, "the further south you go, the more immoral and merry are the people; the further north, the more virtuous and miserable. There's a wrong balance somewhere,—but where, 'tis not easy to find out."

"Weel," said Macfarlane, "I can give ye a direct contradeection to your theory. Scotland lies to the north, and ye'll not find a grander harvest o' sinfu' souls anywhere between this an' the day o' judgment. I'm a Scotchman, an' I'm just proud o' my country—I'd back its men against a' the human race,—but I wadna say much for the stabeelity o' its women. I wad just tak to my heels and run if I saw a real, thumpin', red-cheeked, big-boned Scotch lassie makin' up to me. There's nae bashfulness in they sort, and nae safety."

"I will go to Scotland!" said Duprez enthusiastically. "I feel that those—what do you call them, lassies?—will charm, me!"

"Scotland I never saw," said Guldmar. "From all I have heard, it seems to me 'twould be too much like Norway. After one's eyes have rested long on these dark mountains and glaciers, one likes now and then to see a fertile sunshiny stretch of country such as France, or the plains of Lombardy. Of course there may be exceptions, but I tell you climatic influences have a great deal to do with the state of mind and morals. Now, take the example of that miserable old Lovisa Elsland. She is the victim of religious mania—and religious mania, together with superstition of the most foolish kind, is common in Norway. It happens often during the long winters; the people have not sufficient to occupy their minds; no clergyman—not even Dyceworthy—can satisfy the height of their fanaticism. They preach and pray and shriek and groan in their huts; some swear that they have the spirit of prophecy,—others that they are possessed of devils,—others imagine witchcraft, like Lovisa—and altogether there is such a howling on the name of Christ, that I am glad to be out of it,—for 'tis a sight to awaken the laughter and contempt of a pagan such as I am!"

Thelma listened with a slight shadow of pain on her features.

"Father is not a pagan," she declared, turning to Lorimer. "How can one be pagan if one believes that there is good in everything,—and that nothing happens except for the best?"

"It sounds to me more Christian than pagan," averred Lorimer, with a smile. "But it's no use appealing to ME on such matters, Miss Guldmar. I am an advocate of the Law of Nothing. I remember a worthy philosopher who,—when he was in his cups,—earnestly assured me it was all right—'everything was nothing, and nothing was everything.' 'You are sure that is so?' I would say to him. 'My dear young friend—HIC—I am positive! I have—HIC—worked out the problem with—HIC—care!' And he would shake me by the hand warmly, with a mild and moist smile, and would retire to bed walking sideways in the most amiable manner. I'm certain his ideas were correct as well as luminous."

They laughed, and then looking up saw that they were passing a portion of the coast of Seiland which was more than usually picturesque. Facing them was a great cavernous cleft in the rocks, tinted with a curious violet hue intermingled with bronze,—and in the strong sunlight these colors flashed with the brillancy of jewels, reflecting themselves in the pale slate-colored sea. By Errington's orders the yacht slackened speed, and glided along with an almost noiseless motion,—and they were silent, listening to the dash and drip of water that fell invisibly from the toppling crags that frowned above, while the breathless heat and stillness of the air added to the weird solemnity of the scene. They all rose from their chairs and leaned on the deck-rails, looking, but uttering no word.

"In one of these islands," said Thelma at last, very softly—"it was either Seiland or Soroe—they once found the tomb of a great chief. There was an inscription outside that warned all men to respect it, but they laughed at the warning and opened the tomb. And they saw, seated in a stone chair, a skeleton with a gold crown on its head and a great carved seal in its hand, and at its feet there was a stone casket. The casket was broken open, and it was full of gold and jewels. Well, they took all the gold and jewels, and buried the skeleton—and now,—do you know what happens? At midnight a number of strange persons are seen searching on the shore and among the rocks for the lost treasure, and it is said they often utter cries of anger and despair. And those who robbed the tomb all died suddenly."

"Served them right!" said Lorimer. "And now they are dead, I suppose the wronged ghosts don't appear any more?"

"Oh yes, they do," said Guldmar very seriously. "If any sailor passes at midnight, and sees them or hears their cries, he is doomed."

"But DOES he see or hear them?" asked Errington, with a smile.

"Well, I don't know," returned Guldmar, with a grave shake of his head. "I'm not superstitious myself, but I should be sorry to say anything against the berg-folk. You see they MAY exist, and it's no use offending them."

"And what do ye mean by the berg-folk?" inquired Macfarlane.

"They are supposed to be the souls of persons who died impenitent," said Thelma, "and they are doomed to wander, on the hills till the day of judgment. It is a sort of purgatory."

Duprez shook his fingers emphatically in the air.

"Ah, bah!" he said; "what droll things remain still in the world! Yes, in spite of liberty, equality, fraternity! You do not believe in foolish legends, Mademoiselle? For example,—do you think you will suffer purgatory?"

"Indeed yes!" she replied. "No one can be good enough to go straight to heaven. There must be some little stop on the way in which to be sorry for all the bad things one has done."

"'Tis the same idea as ours," said Guldmar. "We have two places of punishment in the Norse faith; one, Nifleheim, which is a temporary thing like the Catholic purgatory; the other Nastrond, which is the counterpart of the Christian hell. Know you not the description of Nifleheim in the Edda?—'tis terrible enough to satisfy all tastes. 'Hela, or Death rules over the Nine Worlds of Nifleheim. Her hall is called Grief. Famine is her table, and her only servant is Delay. Her gate is a precipice, her porch Faintness, her bed Leanness,— Cursing and Howling are her tent. Her glance is dreadful and terrifying,—and her lips are blue with the venom of Hatred.' These words," he added," sound finer in Norwegian, but I have given the meaning fairly."

"Ma certes!" said Macfarlane chuckling. "I'll tell my aunt in Glasgie aboot it. This Nifleheim wad suit her pairfectly,—she wad send a' her relations there wi' tourist tickets, not available for the return journey!"

"It seems to me," observed Errington, "that the Nine Worlds of Nifleheim have a resemblance to the different circles of Dante's Purgatory."

"Exactly so," said Lorimer. "All religions seem to me to be more or less the same,—the question I can never settle is,—which is the right one?"

"Would you follow it if you knew?" asked Thelma, with a slight smile. Lorimer laughed.

"Well, upon my life, I don't know!" he answered frankly, "I never was a praying sort of fellow,—I don't seem to grasp the idea of it somehow. But there's one thing I'm certain of,—I can't endure a bird without song,—a flower without scent, or a WOMAN without religion—she seems to me no woman at all."

"But ARE there any such women?" inquired the girl surprised.

"Yes, there are undoubtedly! Free-thinking, stump-orator, have-your- rights sort of creatures. YOU don't know anything about them, Miss Guldmar—be thankful! Now, Phil, how long is this vessel of yours going to linger here?"

Thus reminded, Errington called to the pilot, and in a few minutes the Eulalie resumed her usual speed, and bore swiftly on towards Soroe. This island, dreary and dark in the distance, grew somewhat more inviting in aspect on a nearer approach. Now and then a shaft of sunlight fell on some glittering point of felspar or green patch of verdure.—and Valdemar Svensen stated that he knew of a sandy creek where, if the party chose, they could land and see a small cave of exquisite beauty, literally hung all over with stalactites.

"I never heard of this cave," said Guldmar, fixing a keen eye on the pilot. "Art thou a traveller's guide to all such places in Norway?"

Somewhat to Errington's surprise, Svensen changed color and appeared confused; moreover, he removed his red cap altogether when he answered the bonde, to whom he spoke deferentially in rapid Norwegian. The old man laughed as he listened, and seemed satisfied; then, turning away, he linked his arm through Philip's, and said,

"You must pardon him, my lad, that he spoke in your presence a tongue unfamiliar to you. No offense was meant. He is of my creed, but fears to make it known, lest he should lose all employment— which is likely enough, seeing that so many of the people are fanatics. Moreover, he is bound to me by an oath,—which in olden days would have made him my serf,—but which leaves him free enough just now,—with one exception."

"And that exception?" asked Errington with some interest.

"Is, that should I ever demand a certain service at his hands, he dare not refuse it. Odd, isn't it? or so it seems to you," and Guldmar pressed the young man's arm lightly and kindly; "but our Norse oaths, are taken with great solemnity, and are as binding as the obligation of death itself. However, I have not commanded Valdemar's obedience yet, nor do I think I am likely to do so for some time. He is a fine, faithful fellow,—though too much given to dreams."

A gay chorus of laughter here broke from the little group seated on deck, of which Thelma was the centre,—and Guldmar stopped in his walk, with an attentive smile on his open, ruddy countenance.

"'Tis good for the heart to hear the merriment of young folks," he said. "Think you not my girl's laugh is like the ripple of a lark's song? just so clear and joyous?"

"Her voice is music itself!" declared Philip quickly and warmly. "There is nothing she says, or does, or looks,—that is not absolutely beautiful!"

Then, suddenly aware of his precipitation, he stopped abruptly. His face flushed as Guldmar regarded him fixedly, with a musing and doubtful air. But whatever the old man thought, he said nothing. He merely held the young baronet's arm a little closer, and together they joined the others,—though it was noticeable that during the rest of the day the bonde was rather abstracted and serious,—and that every now and then his eyes rested on his daughter's face with an expression of tender yearning and melancholy.

It was about two hours after luncheon that the Eulalie approached the creek spoken of by the pilot, and they were all fascinated by the loveliness as well as by the fierce grandeur of the scene. The rocks on that portion of Soroe appeared to have split violently asunder to admit some great in-rushing passage of the sea, and were piled up in toppling terraces to the height of more than two thousand feet above the level of the water. Beneath these wild and craggy fortresses of nature a shining stretch of beach had formed itself, on which the fine white sand, mixed with crushed felspar, sparkled like powdered silver. On the left-hand side of this beach could be distinctly seen the round opening of the cavern to which Valdemar Svensen directed their attention. They decided to visit it- -the yacht was brought to a standstill, and the long-boat lowered. They took no sailors with them, Errington and his companions rowing four oars, while Thelma and her father occupied the stern. A landing was easily effected, and they walked toward the cavern, treading on thousands of beautiful little shells which strewed the sand beneath their feet. There was a deep stillness everywhere—the island was so desolate that it seemed as though the very seabirds refused to make their homes in the black clefts of such steep and barren rocks.

At the entrance of the little cave Guldmar looked back to the sea.

"There's a storm coming!" he announced. "Those clouds we saw this morning have sailed thither almost as quickly as ourselves!"

The sky had indeed grown darker, and little wrinkling waves disturbed the surface of the water. But the sun as yet retained his sovereignty, and there was no wind. By the pilot's advice, Errington and his friends had provided themselves each with a pine torch, in order to light up the cavern as soon as they found themselves within it. The smoky crimson flare illuminated what seemed at a first glance to be a miniature fairy palace studded thickly with clusters of diamonds. Long pointed stalactites hung from the roof at almost mathematically even distances from one another,—the walls glistened with varying shades of pink and green and violet,—and in the very midst of the cave was a still pool of water in which all the fantastic forms and hues of the place mirrored themselves in miniature. In one corner the stalactites had clustered into the shape of a large chair overhung by a canopy, and Duprez perceiving it, exclaimed—he listened, and seemed satisfied; then, turning away, he linked his arm through Philip's, and said,

"And that exception?" asked Errington with some interest.

"Is, that should I ever demand a certain service at his hands, he dare not refuse it. Odd, isn't it? or so it seems to you," and Guldmar pressed the young man's arm lightly and kindly; "but our Norse oaths, are taken with great solemnity, and are as binding as the obligation of death it self. However, I have not commanded Valdemar's obedience yet, nor do I think I am likely to do so for some time. He is a fine, faithful fellow,—though too much given to dreams."

A gay chorus of laughter here broke from the little group seated on deck, of which Thelma was the centre,—and Guldmar stopped in his walk, with an attentive smile on his open, ruddy countenance.

"'Tis good for the heart to hear the merriment of young folks," he said. "Think you not my girl's laugh is like the ripple of a lark's song? just so clear and joyous?"

"Her voice is music itself!" declared Philip quickly and warmly. "There is nothing she says, or does, or looks,—that is not absolutely beautiful!"

It was about two hours after luncheon that the Eulalie approached the creek spoken of by the pilot, and they were all fascinated by the loveliness as well as by the fierce out to the blessed sunshine again—"maybe we can climb one of yon wild rocks and get a view worth seeing."

"All right, sir!" said Lorimer, chivalrously resolving that now Errington should have a chance. "Come on, Mac! Allons, marchons,— Pierre! Mr. Guldmar exacts our obedience! Phil, you take care of the queen!"

And skillfully pushing on Duprez and Macfarlane before him, he followed Guldmar, who preceded them all,—thus leaving his friend in a momentary comparative solitude with Thelma. The girl was a little startled as she saw them thus taking their departure, and sprang up from her stalactite throne in haste. Sir Philip had laid aside his torch in order to assist her with both hands to descend the sloping rocks; but her embarrassment at being left almost alone with him made her nervous and uncertain of foot,—she was hurried and agitated and anxious to overtake the others, and in trying to walk quickly she slipped and nearly fell. In one second she was caught in his arms and clasped passionately to his heart.

"Thelma! Thelma!" he whispered, "I love you, my darling—I love you!"

She trembled in his strong embrace, and strove to release herself, but he pressed her more closely to him, scarcely knowing that he did so, but feeling that he held the world, life, time, happiness, and salvation in this one fair creature. His brain was in a wild whirl— the glitter of the stalactite cave turned to a gyrating wheel of jewel-work, there was nothing any more—no universe, no existence— nothing but love, love, love, beating strong hammer-strokes through every fibre of his frame. He glanced up, and saw that the slowly retreating forms of his friends had nearly reached the outer opening of the cavern. Once there, they would look back and—

"Quick, Thelma!" and his warm breath touched her cheek. "My darling! my love! if you are not angry,—kiss me! I shall understand."

She hesitated. To Philip that instant of hesitation seemed a cycle of slow revolving years. Timidly she lifted her head. She was very pale, and her breath came and went quickly. He gazed at her in speechless suspense,—and saw as in a vision the pure radiance of her face and star-like eyes shining more and more closely upon him. Then came a touch,—soft and sweet as a roseleaf pressed against his lips,—and for one mad moment he remembered nothing,—he was caught up like Homer's Paris in a cloud of gold, and knew not which was earth or heaven.

"You love me, Thelma?" he murmured in a sort of wondering rapture. "I cannot believe it, sweet! Tell me—you love me?"

She looked up. A new, unspeakable glory flushed her face, and her eyes glowed with the mute eloquence of awakening passion.

"Love you?" she said in a voice so low and sweet that it might have been the whisper of a passing fairy. "Ah, yes! more than my life!"

CHAPTER XIV.


"Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth;
Each singly wooed and won!"
 
                                        Dante Rosetti.

"Hillo, ho!" shouted Guldmar vociferously, peering back into the shadows of the cavern from whence the figures of his daughter and Errington were seen presently emerging. "Why, what kept you so long, my lad? We thought you were close behind us. Where's your torch?"

"It went out," replied Philip promptly, as he assisted Thelma with grave and ceremonious politeness to cross over some rough stones at the entrance, "and we had some trouble to find our way."

"Ye might hae called to us i' the way o' friendship," observed Macfarlane somewhat suspiciously, "and we wad hae lighted ye through."

"Oh, it was no matter!" said Thelma, with a charming smile. "Sir Philip seemed well to know the way, and it was not so very dark!"

Lorimer glanced at her and read plainly all that was written in her happy face. His heart sank a little; but, noticing that the old bonde was studying his daughter with a slight air of vexation and surprise, he loyally determined to divert the general attention from her bright blushes and too brilliantly sparkling eyes.

"Well!. . . here you both are, at any rate," he said lightly, "and I should strongly advise that we attempt no more exploration of the island of Soroe to-day. Look at the sky; and just now there was a clap of thunder."

"Thunder?" exclaimed Errington. "I never heard it!"

"I dare say not!" said Lorimer, with a quiet smile. "Still WE heard it pretty distinctly, and I think we'd better make for the yacht."

"All right!" and Sir Philip sprang gaily into the longboat to arrange the cushions in the stern for Thelma. Never had he looked handsomer or more high-spirited, and his elation was noticed by all his companions.

"Something joyous has happened to our Phil-eep," said Duprez in a half-whisper. "He is in the air!"

"And something in the ither way has happened vera suddenly to Mr. Guldmar," returned Macfarlane. "Th' auld man is in the dumps."

The bonde's face in truth looked sad and somewhat stern. He scarcely spoke at all as he took his place in the boat beside his daughter,— once he raised her little hand, looked at it, and kissed it fondly.

They were all soon on their way back to the Eulalie over a sea that had grown rough and white-crested during their visit to the stalactite cave. Clouds had gathered thickly over the sky, and though a few shafts of sunlight still forced a passage through them, the threatening darkness spread with steady persistency, especially to the northern side of the horizon, where Storm hovered in the shape of a black wing edged with coppery crimson. As they reached the yacht a silver glare of lightning sprang forth from beneath this sable pinion, and a few large drops of rain began to fall. Errington hurried Thelma on deck and down into the saloon. His friends, with Guldmar, followed,—and the vessel was soon plunging through waves of no small height on her way back to the Altenfjord. A loud peal of thunder like a salvo of artillery accompanied their departure from Soroe, and Thelma shivered a little as she heard it.

"You are nervous, Mademoiselle Guldmar?" asked Duprez, noticing her tremor.

"Oh no," she answered brightly. "Nervous? That is to be afraid,—I am not afraid of a storm, but I do not like it. It is a cruel, fierce thing; and I should have wished to-day to be all sunshine— all gladness!" She paused, and her eyes grew soft and humid.

"Then you have been happy to-day?" said Lorimer in a low and very gentle voice.

She smiled up at him from the depths of the velvet lounge in which Errington had placed her.

"Happy? I do not think I have ever been so happy before!" She paused, and a bright blush crimsoned her cheeks; then, seeing the piano open, she said suddenly "Shall I sing to you? or perhaps you are all tired, and would rather rest?"

"Music IS rest," said Lorimer rather dreamily, watching her as she rose from her seat,—a tall, supple, lithe figure,—and moved towards the instrument. "And YOUR voice. Miss Guldmar, would soothe the most weary soul that ever dwelt in clay."

She glanced round at him, surprised at his sad tone.

"Ah, you are very, very tired, Mr. Lorimer, I am sure! I will sing you a Norse cradle-song to make you go to sleep. You will not understand the words though—will that matter?"

"Not in the least!" answered Lorimer, with a smile. "The London girls sing in German, Italian, Spanish, and English. Nobody knows what they are saying: they scarcely know themselves—but it's all right, and quite fashionable."

Thelma laughed gaily. "How funny!" she exclaimed. "It is to amuse people, I suppose! Well,—now listen." And, playing a soft prelude, her rich contralto rippled forth in a tender, passionate, melancholy melody,—so sweet and heart-penetrating that the practical Macfarlane sat as one in a dream,—Duprez forgot to finish making the cigarette he was daintily manipulating between his fingers, and Lorimer had much ado to keep tears from his eyes. From one song she glided to another and yet another; her soul seemed possessed by the very spirit of music. Meanwhile Errington, in obedience to an imperative sign from old Guldmar, left the saloon, with him,—once outside the doors the bonde said in a somewhat agitated voice—

"I desire to speak to you, Sir Philip, alone and undisturbed, if such a thing be possible."

"By all means!" answered Philip. "Come to my 'den' on deck. We shall be quite solitary there."

He led the way, and Olaf Guldmar followed him in silence.

It was raining fiercely, and the waves, green towers of strength, broke every now and then over the sides of the yacht with a hissing shower of salt white spray. The thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating echoes,—frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like swords drawn from dark scabbards,—yet towards the south the sky was clearing, and arrowy beams of pale gold fell from the hidden sun, with a soothing and soft lustre on the breast of the troubled water.

Guldmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of refreshment. His eyes rested lovingly on the tumbling billows,—he bared his white head to the wind and rain.

"This is the life, the blood, the heart of a man!" he said, while a sort of fierce delight shone in his keen eyes. "To battle with the tempest,—to laugh at the wrath of waters,—to set one's face against the wild wind,—to sport with the elements as though they were children or serfs,—this is the joy of manhood! A joy," he added slowly, "that few so-called men of to-day can ever feel."

Errington smiled gravely. "Perhaps you are right, sir," he said; "but perhaps, at the same time, you forget that life has grown very bitter to all of us during the last hundred years or so. Maybe the world is getting old and used up, maybe the fault is in ourselves,— but it is certain that none of us nowadays are particularly happy, except at rare intervals when—"

At that moment, in a lull of the storm, Thelma's voice pealed upwards from the saloon. She was singing a French song, and the refrain rang out clearly—

"Ah! le doux son d'un baiser tendre!"

Errington paused abruptly in his speech, and turning towards a little closed and covered place on deck which was half cabin, half smoking-room, and which he kept as his own private sanctum, he unlocked it, saying—

"Will you come in here, sir? It's not very spacious, but I think it's just the place for a chat,—especially a private one."

Guldmar entered, but did not sit down,—Errington shut the door against the rain and beating spray and also remained standing. After a pause, during which the bonde seemed struggling with some inward emotion, he said resolutely—

"Sir Philip, you are a young man, and I am an old one. I would not willingly offend you—for I like you—yes!" And the old man looked up frankly: "I like you enough to respect you—which is more than I can say to many men I have known! But I have a weight on my heart that must be lifted. You and my child have been much together for many days,—and I was an old fool not to have foreseen the influence your companionship might have upon her. I may be mistaken in the idea that has taken hold of me—some wild words let fall by the poor boy Sigurd this morning, when he entreated my pardon for his misconduct of yesterday, have perhaps misled my judgment,—but—by the gods! I cannot put it into suitable words! I—"

"You think I love your daughter?" said Sir Philip quietly. "You are not mistaken, Sir! I love her with my whole heart and soul! I want you to give her to me as my wife."

A change passed over the old farmer's face. He grew deathly pale, and put out one hand feebly as though to seek some support. Errington caught it in his own and pressed it hard.

"Surely you are not surprised, Sir?" he added with eagerness. "How can I help loving her! She is the best and loveliest girl I have ever seen! Believe me,—I would make her happy!"

"And have you thought, young man," returned Guldmar slowly, "that you would make me desolate?—or, thinking it, have you cared?"

There was an infinite pathos in his voice, and Errington was touched and silent. He found no answer to this reproach. Guldmar sat down, leaning his head on his hand.

"Let me think a little," he said. "My mind is confused a bit. I was not prepared for—"

He paused and seemed lost in sorrowful meditation. By-and-by he looked up, and meeting Errington's anxious gaze, he broke into a short laugh.

"Don't mind me, my lad!" he said sturdily. "'Tis a blow, you see! I had not thought so far as this. I'll tell you the plain truth, and you must forgive me for wronging you. I know what young blood is, all the world over. A fair face fires it—and impulse makes it gallop beyond control. 'Twas so with me when I was your age,—though no woman, I hope, was ever the worse for my harmless lovemaking. But Thelma is different from most women,—she has a strange nature,— moreover, she has a heart and a memory,—if she once learns the meaning of love, she will never unlearn the lesson. Now, I thought, that like most young men of your type, you might, without meaning any actual evil, trifle with her—play with her feelings—"

"I understand, Sir," said Philip coolly, without displaying any offense. "To put it plainly, in spite of your liking for me, you thought me a snob."

This time the old man laughed heartily and unforcedly.

"Dear, dear!" he exclaimed. "You are what is termed in your own land, a peppery customer! Never mind—I like it. Why, my lad, the men of to-day think it fair sport to trifle with a pretty woman now and then—"

"Pardon!" interrupted Philip curtly. "I must defend my sex. We MAY occasionally trifle with those women who show us that they wish to be trifled with—but never with those who, like your daughter, win every man's respect and reverence."

Guldmar rose and grasped his hand fervently.

"By all the gods, I believe you are a true gentleman!" he said. "I ask your pardon if I have offended you by so much as a thought. But now"—and his face grew very serious—"we must talk this matter over. I will not speak of the suddenness of your love for my child, because I know, from my own past experience, that love is a rapid impulse—a flame ignited in a moment. Yes, I know that well!" He paused, and his voice trembled a little, but he soon steadied it and went on—"I think, however, my lad, that you have been a little hasty,—for instance, have you thought what your English friends and relatives will say to your marrying a farmer's daughter who,—though she has the blood of kings in her veins,—is, nevertheless, as this present world would judge, beneath you in social standing? I say, have you thought of this?"

Philip smiled proudly. "Certainly, sir, I have NOT thought of any such trifle as the opinion of society,—if that is what you mean. I have no relatives to please or displease—no friends in the truest sense of the world except Lorimer. I have a long list of acquaintances undoubtedly,—infinite bores, most of them,—and whether they approve or disapprove of my actions is to me a matter of profound indifference."

"See you!" said the bonde firmly and earnestly. "It would be an ill day for me if I gave my little one to a husband who might—mind! I only say MIGHT,—in the course of years, regret having married her."

"Regret!" cried Philip excitedly, then quieting down, he said gently. "My good friend, I do not think you understand me. You talk as if Thelma were beneath ME. Good God! It is _I_ who am infinitely beneath HER! I am utterly unworthy of her in every way, I assure you—and I tell you so frankly. I have led a useless life, and a more or less selfish one. I have principally sought to amuse and interest myself all through it. I've had my vices to, and have them still. Beside Thelma's innocent white soul, mine looks villainous! But I can honestly say I never knew what love was till I saw her,— and now—well! I would give my life away gladly to save her from even a small sorrow."

"I believe you—I thoroughly believe you!" said Guldmar. "I see you love the child. The gods forbid that I should stand in the way of her happiness! I am getting old, and 'twas often a sore point with me to know what would become of my darling when I was gone,—for she is fair to look upon, and there are many human wolves ready to devour such lambs. Still, my lad, you must learn all. Do you know what is said of me in Bosekop?"

Errington smiled and nodded in the affirmative.

"You do?" exclaimed the old man, somewhat surprised. "You know they say I killed my wife—my wife! the creature before whom my soul knelt in worship night and day—whose bright head was the sunlight of life! Let me tell you of her, Sir Philip—'tis a simple story. She was the child of my dearest friend, and many years younger than myself. This friend of mine, Erik Erlandsen, was the captain of a stout Norwegian barque, running constantly between these wild waters and the coast of France. He fell in love with, and married a blue- eyed beauty from the Sogne Fjord, he carried her secretly away from her parents, who would not consent to the marriage. She was a timid creature, in spite of her queenly ways, and, for fear of her parents, she would never land again on the shores of Norway. She grew to love France,—and Erik often left her there in some safe shelter when he was was bound on some extra long and stormy passage. She took to the Catholic creed, too, in France, and learned to speak the French tongue, so Erik said, as though it were her own. At the time of the expected birth of her child, her husband had taken her far inland to Arles, and there business compelled him to leave her for some days. When he returned she was dead!—laid out for burial, with flowers and tapers round her. He fell prone on her body insensible,—and not for many hours did the people of the place dare to tell him that he was the father of a living child—a girl, with the great blue eyes and white skin of her mother. He would scarce look at it—but at last, when roused a bit, he carried the little thing in his arms to the great Convent at Arles, and, giving the nuns money, he bade them take it and bring it up as they would, only giving it the name of Thelma. Then poor Erlandsen came home—he sought me out:—he said, 'Olaf, I feel that I am going on my last voyage. Promise you will see to my child—guard her, if you can, from an evil fate! For me there is no future!' I promised, and strove to cheer him—but he spoke truly—his ship went down in a storm on the Bay of Biscay, and all on board were lost. Then it was that I commenced my journeyings to and fro, to see the little maiden that was growing up in the Convent at Arles. I watched her for sixteen years—and when she reached her seventeenth birthday, I married her and brought her to Norway."

"And she was Thelma's mother?" said Errington with interest.

"She was Thelma's mother," returned the bonde, "and she was more beautiful than even Thelma is now. Her education had been almost entirely French, but, as a child, she had learnt that I generally spoke English, and as there happened to be an English nun in the Convent, she studied that language and mastered it for the love of me—yes!" he repeated with musing tenderness, "all for the love of me,—for she loved me, Sir Philip—ay! as passionately as I loved her, and that is saying a great deal! We lived a solitary happy life,—but we did not mix with our neighbors—our creeds were different,—our ways apart from theirs. We had some time of perfect happiness together. Three years passed before our child was born, and then"—the bonde paused awhile, and again continued,—"then my wife's health grew frail and uncertain. She liked to be in the fresh air, and was fond of wandering about the hills with her little one in her arms. One day—shall I ever forget it! when Thelma was about two and a half years old, I missed them both, and went out to search for them, fearing my wife had lost her way, and knowing that our child could not toddle far without fatigue. I found them"—the bonde shuddered-" but how? My wife had slipped and fallen through a chasm in the rocks,—high enough, indeed, to have killed her,—she was alive, but injured for life. She lay there white and motionless— little Thelma meanwhile sat smilingly on the edge of the rock, assuring me that her mother had gone to sleep 'down there.' Well!" and Guldmar brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, "to make a long story short, I carried my darling home in my arms a wreck—she lingered for ten years of patient suffering, ten long years! She could only move about on crutches,—the beauty of her figure was gone—but the beauty of her face grew more perfect every day! Never again was she seen on the hills,—and so to the silly folks of Bosekop she seemed to have disappeared. Indeed, I kept her very existence a secret,—I could not endure that others should hear of the destruction of all that marvellous grace and queenly loveliness! She lived long enough to see her daughter blossom into girlhood,— then,—she died. I could not bear to have her laid in the damp, wormy earth—you know in our creed earth-burial is not practiced,— so I laid her tenderly away in a king's tomb of antiquity,—a tomb known only to myself and one who assisted me to lay her in her last resting-place. There she sleeps right royally,—and now is your mind relieved, my lad? For the reports of the Bosekop folk must certainly have awakened some suspicions in your mind?"

"Your story has interested me deeply, sir," said Errington; "but I assure you I never had any suspicions of you at all. I always disregard gossip—it is generally scandalous, and seldom true. Besides, I took your face on trust, as you took mine."

"Then," declared Guldmar, with a smile, "I have nothing more to say,—except"—and he stretched out both hands—"may the great gods prosper your wooing! You offer a fairer fate to Thelma than I had dreamed of for her—but I know not what the child herself may say—"

Philip interrupted him. His eyes flashed, and he smiled.

"She loves me!" he said simply. Guldmar looked at him, laughed a little, and sighed.

"She loves thee?" he said, relapsing into the THEE and THOU he was wont to use with his daughter. "Thou hast lost no time, my lad? When didst thou find that out?"

"To-day!" returned Philip, with that same triumphant smile playing about his lips. "She told me so—yet even now I cannot believe it!"

"Ah, well, thou mayest believe it truly," said Guldmar, "for Thelma says nothing that she does not mean! The child has never stooped to even the smallest falsehood."

Errington seemed lost in a happy dream. Suddenly he roused himself and took Guldmar by the arm.

"Come," he said, "let us go to her! She will wonder why we are so long absent. See! the storm has cleared—the sun is shining. It is understood? You will give her to me?"

"Foolish lad!" said Guldmar gently. "What have I to do with it? She has given herself to thee! Love has overwhelmed both of your hearts, and before the strong sweep of such an ocean what can an old man's life avail? Nothing—less than nothing! Besides, I SHOULD be happy— if I have regrets,—if I feel the tooth of sorrow biting at my heart—'tis naught but selfishness. 'Tis my own dread of parting with her"—his voice trembled, and his fine face quivered with suppressed emotion.

Errington pressed his arm. "Our house shall be yours, sir!" he said eagerly. "Why not leave this place and come with us?"

Guldmar shook his head. "Leave Norway!" he said—"leave the land of my fathers—turn my back on these mountains and fjords and glaziers? Never! No, no, my lad, you're kind-hearted and generous as becomes you, and I thank you from my heart. But 'twould be impossible! I should be like a caged eagle, breaking my wings against the bars of English conventionalities. Besides, young birds must make their nest without interference from the old ones."

He stepped out on deck as Errington opened the little cabin door, and his features kindled with enthusiasm as he looked on the stretch of dark mountain scenery around him, illumined by the brilliant beams of the sun that shone out now in full splendor, as though in glorious defiance of the retreating storm, which had gradually rolled away in clouds that were tumbling one over the other at the extreme edge of the northern horizon, like vanquished armies taking to hasty flight.

"Could I stand the orderly tameness of your green England, think you, after this?" he exclaimed, with a comprehensive gesture of his hand. "No, no! When death comes—and 'twill not be long coming—let it find me with my face turned to the mountains, and nothing but their kingly crests between me and the blessed sky! Come, my lad!" and he relapsed into his ordinary tone. "If thou art like me when I was thy age, every minute passed away from thy love seems an eternity! Let us go to her—we had best wait till the decks are dry before we assemble up here again."

They descended at once into the saloon, where they found Thelma being initiated into the mysteries of chess by Duprez, while Macfarlane and Lorimer looked idly on. She glanced up from the board as her father and Errington entered, and smiled at them both with a slightly heightened color.

"This is such a wonderful game, father!" she said. "And I am so stupid, I cannot understand it! So Monsieur Pierre is trying to make me remember the moves."

"Nothing is easier!" declared Duprez. "I was showing you how the bishop goes, so—cross-ways," and he illustrated his lesson. "He is a dignitary of the Church, you perceive Bien! it follows that he cannot go in a straight line,—if you observe them well, you will see that all the religious gentlemen play at cross purposes. You are very quick, Mademoiselle Guldmar,—you have perfectly comprehended the move of the Castle, and the pretty plunge of the knight. Now, as I told you, the queen can do anything—all the pieces shiver in their shoes before her!"

"Why?" she asked, feeling a little embarrassed, as Sir Philip came and sat beside her, looking at her with an undoubtedly composed air of absolute proprietorship.

"Why? Enfin, the reason is simple!" answered Pierre. "The queen is a woman,—everything must give way to her wish!"

"And the king?" she inquired.

"Ah! Le pauvre Roi! He can do very little—almost nothing! He can only move one step at a time, and that with much labor and hesitation—he is the wooden image of Louis XVI!"

"Then," said the girl quickly, "the object of the game is to protect a king who is not worth protecting!"

Duprez laughed. "Exactly! And thus, in this charming game, you have the history of many nations! Mademoiselle Guldmar has put the matter excellently! Chess is for those who intend to form republics. All the worry and calculation—all the moves of pawns, bishops, knights, castles, and queens,—all to shelter the throne which is not worth protecting! Excellent! Mademoiselle, you are not in favor of monarchies!"

"I do not know," said Thelma; "I have never thought of such things. But kings should be great men,—wise and powerful, better and braver than all their subjects, should they not?"

"Undoubtedly!" remarked Lorimer; "but, it's a curious thing, they seldom are. Now, our queen, God bless her—"

"Hear, hear!" interrupted Errington, laughing good-humoredly. "I won't have have a word said against the dear old lady, Lorimer! Granted that she hates London, and sees no fun in being stared at by vulgar crowds, I think she's quite right,—and I sympathize heartily with her liking for a cup of tea in peace and quiet with some old Scotch body who doesn't care whether she's a queen or a washerwoman."

"I think," said Macfarlane slowly, "that royalty has its duties, ye see, an' though I canna say I object to Her Majesty's homely way o' behavin', still there are a few matters that wad be the better for her pairsonal attention."

"Oh bother!" said Errington gaily. "Look at that victim of the nation, the Prince of Wales! The poor fellow hasn't a moment's peace of his life,—what with laying foundation stones, opening museums, inspecting this and visiting that, he is like a costermonger's donkey, that must gee-up or gee-wo as his master, the people bid. If he smiles at a woman, it is instantly reported that he's in love with her,—if he frankly says he considers her pretty, there's no end to the scandal. Poor royal wretch! I pity him from my heart! The unwashed, beer-drinking, gin-swilling classes, who clamor for shortened hours of labor, and want work to be expressly invented for their benefit, don't suffer a bit more than Albert Edward, who is supposed to be rolling idly in the very lap of luxury, and who can hardly call his soul his own. Why, the man can't eat a mutton-chop without there being a paragraph in the papers headed, 'Diet of the Prince of Wales.' His life is made an infinite bore to him, I'm positive!"

Guldmar looked thoughtful. "I know little about kings or princes," he said, "but it seems to me, from what I DO know, that they have but small power. They are mere puppets. In olden times they possessed supremacy, but now—"

"I will tell you," interrupted Duprez excitedly, "who it is that rules the people in these times,—it is the PEN—MADAME LA PLUME. A little black, sharp, scratching devil she is,—empress of all nations! No crown but a point,—no royal robe save ink! It is certain that as long as Madame la Plume gambols freely over her realms of paper, so long must kings and autocrats shake in their shoes and be uncertain of their thrones. Mon Dieu! if I had but the gift of writing, I would conquer the world!"

"There are an immense number of people writing just now, Pierre," remarked Lorimer, with a smile, "yet they don't do much in the conquering line."

"Because they are afraid!" said Duprez. "Because they have not the courage of their opinions! Because they dare not tell the truth!"

"Upon my life, I believe you are right!" said Errington. "If there were a man bold enough to declare truths and denounce lies, I should imagine it quite possible that he might conquer the world,—or, at any rate, make it afraid of him."

"But is the world so full of lies?" asked Thelma timidly.

Lorimer looked at her gravely. "I fear so, Miss Guldmar! I think it has a tolerable harvest of them every year,—a harvest, too, that never fails! But I say, Phil! Look at the sun shining! Let us go up on deck,—we shall soon be getting back to the Altenfjord."

They all rose, threw on their caps, and left the saloon with the exception of Errington, who lingered behind, watching his opportunity, and as Thelma followed her father he called her back softly—

"Thelma!"

She hesitated, and then turned towards him,—her father saw her movement, smiled at her, and nodded kindly, as he passed through the saloon doors and disappeared. With a beating heart, she sprang quickly to her lover's side, and as he caught her in his arms, she whispered—

"You have told him?"

"Your father? Yes, my darling!" murmured Philip, as he kissed her sweet, upturned lips. "Be quite happy—he knows everything. Come, Thelma! tell me again you love me—I have not heard you say it properly yet!"

She smiled dreamily as she leaned against his breast and looked up into his eyes.

"I cannot say it properly!" she said. "There is no language for my heart! If I could tell you all I feel, you would think it foolish, I am sure, because it is all so wild and strange,"—she stopped, and her face grew pale,—"oh!" she murmured with a slight tremor; "it is terrible!"

"What is terrible, my sweet one?" asked Errington drawing her more closely, and folding her more tightly in his arms.

She sighed deeply. "To have no more life of my own!" she answered, while her low voice quivered with intense feeling." It has all gone- -to you! And yours has come to me!—is it not strange and almost sad? How your heart beats, poor boy!—I can hear it throb, throb—so fast!—here, where I am resting my head. "She looked up, and her little white hand caressed his cheek. "Philip," she said very softly, "what are you thinking about? Your eyes shine so brightly— do you know you have beautiful eyes?"

"Have I?" he murmured abstractedly, looking down on that exquisite, innocent, glowing face, and trembling with the force of the restrained passion that kindled through him. "I don't know about that!—yours seem to me like two stars fallen from heaven! Oh, Thelma, my darling!—God make me worthy of you."

He spoke with intense fervor,—kissing her with a tenderness, in which there was something of reverence as well as fear. The whole soul of the man was startled and roused to inexpressible devotion, by the absolute simplicity and purity of her nature—the direct frankness with which she had said her life was his—his!—and in what way was HE fitted to be the guardian and possessor of this white lily from the garden of God? She was so utterly different to all women as he had known them—as different as a bird of paradise to a common house-sparrow. Meanwhile, as these thoughts flitted through his brain, she moved gently from his embrace and smiled proudly, yet sweetly.

"Worthy of me?" she said softly and wonderingly. "It is I that will pray to be made worthy of YOU! You must not put it wrongly, Philip!"

He made no answer, but looked at her as she stood before him, majestic as a young empress in her straight, unadorned white gown.

"Thelma!" he said suddenly, "do you know how lovely you are?"

"Yes!" she answered simply; "I know it, because I am like my mother. But it is not anything to be beautiful,—unless one is loved,—and then it is different! I feel much more beautiful now, since you think me pleasant to look at!"

Philip laughed and caught her hand. "What a child you are!" he said. "Now let me see this little finger." And he loosened from his watch- chain a half-hoop ring of brilliants. "This belonged to my mother, Thelma," he continued gently, "and since her death I have always carried it about with me. I resolved never to part with it, except to—" He paused and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, where it sparkled bravely.

She gazed at it in surprise. "You part with it now?" she asked, with wonder in her accents. "I do not understand!"

He kissed her. "No? I will explain again, Thelma!—and you shall not laugh at me as you did the very first time I saw you! I resolved never to part with this ring, I say, except to—my promised wife. NOW do you understand?"

She blushed deeply, and her eyes dropped before his ardent gaze.

"I do thank you very much, Philip,"—she faltered timidly,—she was about to say something further when suddenly Lorimer entered the saloon. He glanced from Errington to Thelma, and from Thelma back again to Errington,—and smiled. So have certain brave soldiers been known to smile in face of a death-shot. He advanced with his usual languid step and nonchalant air, and removing his cap, bowed gravely and courteously.

"Let me be the first to offer my congratulations to the future Lady Errington! Phil, old man!. . . I wish you joy!"

CHAPTER XV.


"Why, sir, in the universal game of double-dealing, shall not the
cleverest tricksters play each other false by haphazard, and so
betray their closest secrets, to their own and their friends'
infinite amazement?"-Congreve

When Olaf Guldmar and his daughter left the yacht that evening, Errington accompanied them, in order to have the satisfaction of escorting his beautiful betrothed as far as her own door. They were all three very silent—the bonde was pensive, Thelma shy, and Errington himself was too happy for speech. Arriving at the farmhouse, they saw Sigurd curled up under the porch, playing idly with the trailing rose-branches, but, on hearing their footsteps, he looked up, uttered a wild exclamation, and fled. Guldmar tapped his own forehead significantly.

"He grows worse and worse, the poor lad!" he said somewhat sorrowfully. "And yet there is a strange mingling of foresight and wit with his wild fancies. Wouldst thou believe it, Thelma, child," and here he turned to his daughter and encircled her waist with his arm—"he seemed to know how matters were with thee and Philip, when I was yet in the dark concerning them!"

This was the first allusion her father had made to her engagement, and her head drooped with a sort of sweet shame.

"Nay, now, why hide thy face?" went on the old man cheerily. "Didst thou think I would grudge my bird her summer-time? Not I! And little did I hope for thee, my darling, that thou wouldst find a shelter worthy of thee in this wild world!" He paused a moment, looking tenderly down upon her, as she nestled in mute affection against his breast,—then addressing himself to Errington, he went on—

"We have a story in our Norse religion, my lad, of two lovers who declared their passion to each other, on one stormy night in the depth of winter. They were together in a desolate hut on the mountains, and around them lay unbroken tracts of frozen snow. They were descended from the gods, and therefore the gods protected them- -and it happened that after they had sworn their troth, the doors of the snow-bound hut flew suddenly open, and lo! the landscape had changed—the hills were gay with grass and flowers,—the sky was blue and brilliant, the birds sang, and everywhere was heard the ripple of waters let loose from their icy fetters, and gamboling down the rocks in the joyous sun. This was the work of the goddess Friga,—the first kiss exchanged by the lovers she watched over, banished Winter from the land, and Spring came instead. 'Tis a pretty story, and true all the world over—true for all men and women of all creeds! It must be an ice-bound heart indeed that will not warm to the touch of love—and mine, though aged, grows young again in the joy of my children." He put his daughter gently from him to-wards Philip, saying with more gravity, "Go to him, child!— go—with thy old father's blessing! And take with thee the three best virtues of a wife,—truth, humility, and obedience. Good night, my son!" and he wrung Errington's hand with fervor. "You'll take longer to say good night to Thelma," and he laughed, "so I'll go in and leave you to it!"

And with a good-natured nod, he entered the house whistling a tune as he went, that they might not think he imagined himself lonely or neglected,—and the two lovers paced slowly up and down the garden- path together, exchanging those first confidences which to outsiders seem so eminently foolish, but which to those immediately concerned are most wonderful, delightful, strange, and enchanting beyond all description. Where, from a practical point of view, is the sense of such questions as these—"When did you love me first?" "What did you feel when I said so-and-so?" "Have you dreamt of me often?" "Will you love me always, always, always?" and so on ad infinitum. "Ridiculous rubbish!" exclaims the would-be strong-minded, but secretly savage old maid,—and the selfishly matter-of-fact, but privately fidgety and lonely old bachelor. Ah! but there are those who could tell you that at one time or another of their lives this "ridiculous rubbish" seemed far more important than the decline and fall of empires,—more necessary to existence than light and air,— more fraught with hope, fear, suspense, comfort, despair, and anxiety than anything that could be invented or imagined! Philip and Thelma,—man and woman in the full flush of youth, health, beauty, and happiness,—had just entered their Paradise,—their fairy- garden,—and every little flower and leaf on the way had special, sweet interest for them. Love's indefinable glories,—Love's proud possibilities,—Love's long ecstasies,—these, like so many spirit- figures, seemed to smile and beckon them on, on, on, through golden seas of sunlight,—through flower-filled fields of drowsy entrancement,—through winding ways of rose-strewn and lily-scented leafage,—on, on, with eyes and hearts absorbed in one another,— unseeing any end to the dreamlike wonders that, like some heavenly picture-scroll, unrolled slowly and radiantly before them. And so they murmured those unwise, tender things which no wisdom in the world has ever surpassed, and when Philip at last said "Good night!" with more reluctance than Romeo, and pressed his parting kiss on his love's sweet, fresh mouth,—the riddle with which he had puzzled himself so often was resolved at last,—life WAS worth living, worth cherishing, worth ennobling. The reason of all things seemed clear to him,—Love, and Love only, supported, controlled, and grandly completed the universe! He accepted this answer to all perplexities,—his heart expanded with a sense of large content—his soul was satisfied.

Meanwhile, during his friend's absence from the yacht, Lorimer took it upon himself to break the news to Duprez and Macfarlane. These latter young gentlemen had had their suspicions already, but they were not quite prepared to hear them so soon confirmed. Lorimer told the matter in his own way.

"I say, you fellows!" he remarked carelessly, as he sat smoking in their company on deck, "you'd better look out! If you stare at Miss Guldmar too much, you'll have Phil down upon you!"

"Ha, ha!" exclaimed Duprez slyly, "the dear Phil-eep is in love?"

"Something more than that," said Lorimer, looking absently at the cigarette he held between his fingers,—"he's an engaged man."

"Engaged!" cried Macfarlane excitedly. "Ma certes! He has the deevil's own luck! He's just secured for himself the grandest woman in the warld!"

"Je le crois bien!" said Duprez gravely, nodding his head several times. "Phil-eep is a wise boy! He is the fortunate one! I am not for marriage at all—no! not for myself,—it is to tie one's hands, to become a prisoner,—and that would not suit me; but if I were inclined to captivity, I should like Mademoiselle Guldmar for my beautiful gaoler. And beautiful she is, mon Dieu! . . . beyond all comparison!"

Lorimer was silent, so was Macfarlane. After a pause Duprez spoke again.

"And do you know, cher Lorimer, when our Phil-eep will marry?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," returned Lorimer. "I know he's engaged, that's all."

Suddenly Macfarlane broke into a chuckling laugh.

"I say, Lorimer," he said, with his deep-set, small grey eyes sparkling with mischief. "'Twould be grand fun to see auld Dyceworthy's face when he hears o't. By the Lord! He'll fall to cursin' an' swearin' like ma pious aunt in Glasgie, or that auld witch that cursed Miss Thelma yestreen!"

"An eminently unpleasant old woman SHE was!" said Lorimer musingly. "I wonder what she meant by it!"

"She meant, mon cher," said Duprdz airily, "that she knew herself to be ugly and venerable, while Mademoiselle was youthful and ravishing,—it is a sufficient reason to excite profanity in the mind of a lady!"

"Here comes Errington!" said Macfarlane, pointing to the approaching boat that was coming swiftly back from the Guldmars' pier. "Lorimer, are we to congratulate him?"

"If you like!" returned Lorimer. "I dare say he won't object."

So that as soon as Sir Philip set foot on the yacht, his hands were cordially grasped, and his friends out-vied each other in good wishes for his happiness. He thanked them simply and with a manly straightforwardness, entirely free from the usual affected embarrassment that some modern young men think it seemly to adopt under similar circumstances.

"The fact is," he said frankly, "I congratulate myself,—I'm more lucky than I deserve, I know!"

"What a sensation she will make in London, Phil!" said Lorimer suddenly. "I've just thought of it! Good Heavens! Lady Winsleigh will cry for sheer spite and vexation!"

Philip laughed. "I hope not," he said. "I should think it would need immense force to draw a tear from her ladyship's cold bright eyes."

"She used to like you awfully, Phil!" said Lorimer. "You were a great favorite of hers."

"All men are her favorites with the exception of one—her husband!" observed Errington gaily. "Come along, let's have some champagne to celebrate the day! We'll propose toasts and drink healths—we've got a fair excuse for jollity this evening."

They all descended into the saloon, and had a merry time of it, singing songs and telling good stories, Lorimer being the gayest of the party, and it was long past midnight when they retired to their cabins, without even looking at the wonders of, perhaps, the most gorgeous sky that had yet shone on their travels—a sky of complete rose-color, varying from the deepest shade up to the palest, in which the sun glowed with a subdued radiance like an enormous burning ruby.

Thelma saw it, standing under her house-porch, where her father had joined her,—Sigurd saw it,—he had come out from some thicket where he had been hiding, and he now sat, in a humble, crouching posture at Thelma's feet. All three were silent, reverently watching the spreading splendor of the heavens. Once Guldmar addressed his daughter in a soft tone.

"Thou are happy, my bird?"

She smiled—the expression of her face was almost divine in its rapture.

"Perfectly happy, my father!"

At the sound of her dulcet voice, Sigurd looked up. His large blue eyes were full of tears, he took her hand and held it in his meagre and wasted one.

"Mistress!" he said suddenly, "do you think I shall soon die?"

She turned her pitying eyes down upon him, startled by the vibrating melancholy of his tone.

"Thou wilt die, Sigurd," answered Guldmar gently, "when the gods please,—not one second sooner or later. Art thou eager to see Valhalla?"

Sigurd nodded dreamily. "They will understand me there!" he murmured. "And I shall grow straight and strong and brave! Mistress, if you meet me in Valhalla, you will love me!"

She stroked his wild fair locks. "I love you now, Sigurd," she said tenderly. "But perhaps we shall all love each other better in heaven."

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Sigurd, patting her hand caressingly. "When we are all dead, dead! When our bodies crumble away and turn to flowers and birds and butterflies,—and our souls come out like white and red flames,—yes! . . . then we shall love each other and talk of such strange, strange things!" He paused and laughed wildly. Then his voice sank again into melancholy monotony—and he added: "Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd!"

Thelma's face grow very earnest and anxious. "Are you vexed with me, dear?" she asked soothingly. "Tell me what it is that troubles you?"

Sigurd met her eyes with a look of speechless despair and shook his head.

"I cannot tell you!" he muttered. "All my thoughts have gone to drown themselves one by one in the cold sea! My heart was buried yesterday, and I saw it sealed down into its coffin. There is something of me left,—something that dances before me like a flame,—but it will not rest, it does not obey me. I call it, but it will not come! And I am getting tired, mistress—very, very tired!" His voice broke, and a low sob escaped him,—he hid his face in the folds of her dress. Guldmar looked at the poor fellow compassionately.

"The wits wander further and further away!" he said to his daughter in a low tone. "'Tis a mind like a broken rainbow, split through by storm—'twill soon vanish. Be patient with him, child,—it cannot be for long!"

"No, not for long!" cried Sigurd, raising his head brightly. "That is true—not for long! Mistress, will you come to-morrow with me and gather flowers? You used to love to wander with your poor boy in the fields,—but you have forgotten,—and I cannot find any blossoms without you! They will not show themselves unless you come! Will you? dear, beautiful mistress! will you come?"

She smiled, pleased to see him a little more cheerful. "Yes, Sigurd," she said; "I will come. We will go together early to-morrow morning and gather all the flowers we can find. Will that make you happy?"

"Yes!" he said, softly kissing the hem of her dress. "It will make me happy—for the last time."

Then he rose in an attitude of attention, as though he had been called by some one at a distance,—and with a grave, preoccupied air he moved away, walking on tip-toe as though he feared to interrupt the sound of some soft invisible music. Guldmar sighed as he watched him disappear.

"May the gods make us thankful for a clear brain when we have it!" he said devoutly; and then turning to his daughter, he bade her good night, and laid his hands on her golden head in silent but fervent blessing. "Child," he said tremulously, "in the new joys that await thee, never forget how thy old father loves thee!"

Then, not trusting himself to say more, he strode into the house and betook himself to slumber. Thelma followed his example, and the old farmhouse was soon wrapped in the peace and stillness of the strange night—a night of glittering sunshine. Sigurd alone was wakeful,—he lay at the foot of one of the tallest pine-trees, and stared persistently at the radiant sky through the network of dark branches. Now and then he smiled as though he saw some beatific vision—sometimes he plucked fitfully at the soft long moss on which he had made his couch, and sometimes he broke into a low, crooning song. God alone knew the broken ideas, the dim fancies, the half born desires, that glimmered like pale ghosts in the desert of his brain,—God alone, in the great Hereafter, could solve the problem of his sorrows and throw light on his soul's darkness.

It was past six in the morning when he arose, and smoothing back his tangled locks, went to Thelma's window and sat down beneath it, in mute expectancy. He had not long to wait,—at the expiration of ten or fifteen minutes, the little lattice was thrown wide open, and the girl's face, fresh as a rose, framed in a shower of amber locks, smiled down upon him.

"I am coming, Sigurd!" she cried softly and joyously. "How lovely the morning is! Stay for me there! I shall not be long."

And she disappeared, leaving her window open. Sigurd heard her singing little scraps of song to herself, as she moved about in the interior of her room. He listened, as though his soul were drawn out of him by her voice,—but presently the rich notes ceased, and there was a sudden silence. Sigurd knew or guessed the reason of that hush,—Thelma was at her prayers. Instinctively the poor forlorn lad folded his wasted hands—most piteously and most imploringly he raised his bewildered eyes to the blue and golden glory of the sky. His conception of God was indefinable; his dreams of heaven, chaotic minglings of fairy-land with Valhalla,—but he somehow felt that wherever Thelma's holy aspirations turned, there the angels must be listening.

Presently she came out of the house, looking radiant as the morning itself,—her luxuriant hair was thrown back over her shoulders, and fell loosely about her in thick curls, simply confined by a knot of blue ribbon. She carried a large osier basket, capacious, and gracefully shaped.

"Now, Sigurd," she called sweetly, "I am ready! Where shall we go?"

Sigurd hastened to her side, happy and smiling.

"Across there," he said, pointing toward the direction of Bosekop. "There is a stream under the trees that laughs to itself all day— you know it, mistress? And the poppies are in the field as you go— and by the banks there are the heart's-ease flowers—we cannot have too many of THEM! Shall we go?"

"Wherever you like, dear," answered Thelma tenderly, looking down from her stately height on the poor stunted creature at her side, who held her dress as though he were a child clinging to her as his sole means of guidance. "All the land is pleasant to-day."

They left the farm and its boundaries. A few men were at work on one of Guldmar's fields, and these looked up,—half in awe, half in fear,—as Thelma and her fantastic servitor passed along.

"'Tis a fine wench!" said one man, resting on his spade, and following with his eyes the erect, graceful figure of his employer's daughter.

"Maybe, maybe!" said another gruffly; "but a fine wench is a snare of the devil! Do ye mind what Lovisa Elsland told us?"

"Ay, ay," answered the first speaker, "Lovisa knows,—Lovisa is the wisest woman we have in these parts—that's true! The girl's a witch, for sure!"

And they resumed their work in gloomy silence. Not one of them would have willingly labored on Olaf Guldmar's land, had not the wages he offered been above the usual rate of hire,—and times were bad in Norway. But otherwise, the superstitious fear of him was so great that his fields might have gone untilled and his crops ungathered,— however, as matters stood, none of them could deny that he was a good paymaster, and just in his dealings with those whom he employed.

Thelma and Sigurd took their way in silence across a perfumed stretch of meadow-land,—the one naturally fertile spot in that somewhat barren district. Plenty of flowers blossomed at their feet, but they did not pause to gather these, for Sigurd was anxious to get to the stream where the purple pansies grew. They soon reached it—it was a silvery clear ribbon of water that unrolled itself in bright folds, through green, transparent tunnels of fern and waving grass—leaping now and then with a swift dash over a smooth block of stone or jagged rock—but for the most part gliding softly, with a happy, self-satisfied murmur, as though it were some drowsy spirit dreaming joyous dreams. Here nodded the grave, purple-leaved pansies,—legendary consolers of the heart,—their little, quaint, expressive physiognomies turned in every direction; up to the sky, as though absorbing the sunlight,—down to the ground, with an almost severe air of meditation, or curled sideways on their stems in a sort of sly reflectiveness.

Sigurd was among them at once—they were his friends,—his playmates, his favorites,—and he gathered them quickly, yet tenderly, murmuring as he did so, "Yes, you must all die; but death does not hurt; no! life hurts, but not death! See! as I pluck you, you all grow wings and fly away—away to other meadows, and bloom again." He paused, and a puzzled look came into his eyes. He turned toward Thelma, who had seated herself on a little knoll just above the stream, "Tell me, mistress," he said, "do the flowers go to heaven?"

She smiled. "I think so, dear Sigurd," she said; "I hope so! I am almost sure they do."

Sigurd nodded with an air of satisfaction.

"That is right," he observed. "It would never do to leave them behind, you know! They would be missed, and we should have to come down again and fetch them—" A crackling among the branches of some trees startled him,—he looked round, and uttered a peculiar cry like the cry of a wild animal, and exclaimed, "Spies, spies! ha! ha! secret, wicked faces that are afraid to show themselves! Come out! Mistress, mistress! make them come out!"

Thelma rose, surprised as his gesticulations, and came towards him; to her utter astonishment she found herself confronted by old Lovisa Elsland, and the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy's servant, Ulrika. On both women's faces there was a curious expression of mingled fear, triumph, and malevolence. Lovisa was the first to break silence.

"At last!" she croaked, in a sort of slow, monotonous tone "At last, Thelma Guldmar, the Lord has delivered you into my hands!"

Thelma drew Sigurd close to her, and slipped one arm around him.

"Poor soul!" she said softly, with sweet pitying eyes fixed fearlessly on the old hag's withered, evil visage. "You must be tired, wandering about on the hills as you do! If you are her friend," she added, addressing Ulrika, "why do you not make her rest at home and keep warm? She is so old and feeble!"

"Feeble!" shrieked Lovisa; "feeble!" And she seemed choking with passion. "If I had my fingers at your throat, you should then see if I am feeble! I—" Ulrika pulled her by the arm, and whispered something which had the effect of calming her a little. "Well," she said, "you speak then! I can wait!"

Ulrika cleared her husky voice, and fixed her dull eyes on the girl's radiant countenance.

"You must go away," she said coldly and briefly; "You and your father, and this creature," and she pointed contemptuously to the staring Sigurd. "Do you understand? You must leave the Alten Fjord. The people are tired of you—tired of bad harvests, ill-luck, sickness, and continued poverty. You are the cause of all our miseries,—and we have resolved you shall not stay among us. Go quickly,—take the blight and pestilence of your presence elsewhere! Go! or if you will not—"

"We shall burn, burn, burn, and utterly destroy!" interrupted Lovisa, with a sort of eldritch shriek. "The strong pine rafters of Olaf Guldmar's dwelling shall be kindled into flame to light the hills with crimson, far and near! Not a plank shall be spared!—not a vestige of his pride be left—"

"Stop!" said Thelma quietly. "What do you mean? You must both be very mad or very wicked! You want us to go away—you threaten to set fire to our home—why? We have done you no harm. Tell me, poor soul!" and she turned with queenly forbearance to Lovisa, "is it for Britta's sake that you would burn the house she lives in? That is not wise! You cursed me the other day,—and why? What have I done that you should hate me?"

The old woman regarded her with steadfast, cruel eyes.

"You are your mother's child!" she said. "I hated her—I hate you! You are a witch!—the village knows it—Mr. Dyceworthy knows it! Mr. Dyceworthy says we shall be justified in the Lord's sight for wreaking evil upon you! Evil, evil be on those of evil deeds! "

"Then shall the evil fall on Mr. Dyceworthy," said the girl calmly. "He is wicked in himself,—and doubly wicked to encourage YOU in wickedness. He is ignorant and false—why do you believe in such a man? "

"He is a saint—a saint!" cried Lovisa wildly. "And shall the daughter of Satan withstand his power?" And she clapped her hands in a sort of fierce ecstasy.

Thelma glanced at her pityingly and smiled. "A saint! Poor thing, how little you know him!" she said. "And it is a pity you should hate me, for I have done you no wrong. I would do good to all if I knew how,—tell me can I comfort you, or make your life more cheerful? It must be hard to be so old and all alone!"

"Your death would comfort me!" returned Lovisa grimly. "Why do you keep Britta from me?"

"I do not keep her," Thelma answered. "She stays with me because she is happy. Why do you grudge her, her happiness? And as for burning my father's house, surely you would not do so wicked and foolish a thing!—but still, you must do as you choose, for it is not possible that we shall leave the Altenfjord to please you."

Here Ulrika started forward angrily. "You defy us!" she cried. "You will not go?" And in her excitement she seized Thelma's arm roughly.

This action was too much for Sigurd; he considered it an attack on the person of his beloved mistress and he resented it at once in his own fashion. Throwing himself on Ulrika with sudden ferocity, he pushed and beat her back as though he were a wolf-hound struggling with refractory prey; and though the ancient Lovisa rushed to the rescue, and Thelma imploringly called upon her zealous champion to desist,—all remonstrances were unavailing, till Sigurd had reduced his enemy to the most abject and whimpering terror.

"A demon—a demon!" she sobbed and moaned, as the valiant dwarf at last released her from his clutches; and, tossing his long, fair locks over his misshapen shoulders, laughed loudly and triumphantly with delight at his victory. "Lovisa! Lovisa Elsland! this is your doing; you brought this upon me! I may die how, and you will not care! O Lord, Lord, have mercy—"

Suddenly she stopped; her eyes dilated,—her face grew grey with the sickening pallor of fear. Slowly she raised her hand and pointed to Sigurd—his fantastic dress had become disordered in the affray, and his jacket was torn open,—and on his bare chest a long red scar in the shape of a cross was distinctly visible. "That scar!" she muttered. "How did he get that scar?"

Lovisa stared at her in impatient derision. Thelma was too surprised to answer immediately, and Sigurd took it upon himself to furnish what he considered a crushing reply.

"Odin's mark!" he said, patting the scar with much elation. "No wonder you are afraid of it! Everybody knows it—birds, flowers, trees, and stars! Even you—you are afraid!"

And he laughed again, and snapped his fingers in her face. The woman shuddered violently. Step by step she drew near to the wondering Thelma, and spoke in low and trembling accents, without a trace of her former anger.

"They say you are wicked," she said slowly, "and that the devil has your soul ready, before you are dead! But I am not afraid of you. No; I will forgive you, and pray for you, if you will tell me, . . ." She paused, and then continued, as with a strong effort. "Yes—tell me WHO is this Sigurd?"

"Sigurd is a foundling," answered Thelma simply. "He was floating about in the Fjord in a basket, and my father saved him. He was quite a baby. He had this scar on his chest then. He has lived with us ever since."

Ulrika looked at her searchingly,—then bent her head,—whether in gratitude or despair it was difficult to say.

"Lovisa Elsland," she said monotonously, "I am going home. I cannot help you any longer! I am tired—ill." Here she suddenly broke down, and, throwing up her arms with a wild gesture, she cried, "O God, God! O God!" and burst into a stormy passion of sobs and tears.

Thelma, touched by her utter misery, would have offered consolation, but Lovisa repelled her with a fierce gesture.

"Go!" said the old woman harshly. "You have cast your spells upon her—I am witness of your work! And shall you escape just punishment? No; not while there is a God in heaven, and I, Lovisa Elsland, live to perform His bidding! Go,—white devil that you are!—go and carry misfortune upon misfortune to your fine gentleman-lover! Ah!" and she chuckled maliciously as the girl recoiled from her, her proud face growing suddenly paler, "have I touched you there? Lie in his breast, and it shall be as though a serpent stung him,—kiss his lips, and your touch shall be poison,— live in doubt, and die in misery! Go! and may all evil follow you!"

She raised her staff and waved it majestically, as though she drew a circle in the air,—Thelma smiled pityingly, but deigned no answer to her wild ravings.

"Come, Sigurd!" she said simply, "let us return home. It is growing late—father will wonder where we are."

"Yes, yes," agreed Sigurd, seizing the basket full of the pansies he had plucked. "The sunshine is slipping away, and we cannot live with shadows! These are not real women, mistress; they are dreams—black dreams,—I have often fought with dreams, and I know how to make them afraid! See how the one weeps because she knows me,—and the other is just going to fall into a grave. I can hear the clods thrown on her head—thump—thump! It does not take long to bury a dream! Come, mistress, let us follow the sunshine!"

And, taking the hand she extended towards him, he turned away, looking back once, however, to call out loudly—

"Good-bye, bad dreams!"

As they disappeared behind the trees, Lovisa turned angrily to the still-sobbing Ulrika.

"What is this folly?" she exclaimed, striking her staff fiercely into the ground. "Art mad or bewitched?"

Ulrika looked up,—her plain face swollen and stained with weeping.

"O Lord, have mercy upon me! O Lord, forgive me!" she moaned. "I did not know it—how COULD I know?"

Lovisa grew so impatient that she seized her by the shoulder and shook her violently.

"Know what?" she cried; "know what?"

"Sigurd is my son!" said Ulrika, with a sort of solemn resignation,- -then, with a sudden gesture, she threw her hands above her head, crying, "My son, my son! The child I thought I had killed! The Lord be praised I did not murder him!"

Lovisa Elsland seemed stupefied with surprise. "Is this the truth?" she asked at last, slowly and incredulously.

"The truth, the truth!" cried Ulrika passionately. "It is always the truth that comes to light! He is my child, I tell you!. . . I gave him that scar!" She paused, shuddering, and continued in a lower tone, "I tried to kill him with a knife, but when the blood flowed, it sickened me, and I could not! He was an infant abortion—the evil fruit of an evil deed—and I threw him out to the waves,—as I told you, long ago. You have had good use of my confession, Lovisa Elsland; you have held me in your power by means of my secret, but now—"

The old woman interrupted her with a low laugh of contempt and malice.

"As the parents are, so are the children!" she said scornfully. "Your lover must have been a fine man, Ulrika, if the son is like his father!"

Ulrika glared at her vengefully, then drew herself up with an air of defiance.

"I care nothing for your taunts, Lovisa Elsland!" she said. "You can do me no harm! All is over between us! I will help in no mischief against the Guldmars. Whatever their faults, they saved—my child!"

"Is that so great a blessing?" asked Lovisa ironically.

"It makes your threats useless," answered Ulrika. "You cannot call me MURDERESS again!"

"Coward and fool!" shrieked Lovisa. "Was it YOUR intent that the child should live? Were you not glad to think it dead? And cannot I spread the story of your infamy through all the villages where you are known? Is not the wretched boy himself a living witness of the attempt you made to kill him? Does not that scar speak against you? Would not Olaf Guldmar relate the story of the child's rescue to any one that asked him? Would you like all Bosekop to know of your intrigue with an escaped criminal, who was afterwards caught and hung! The virtuous Ulrika—the zealous servant of the Gospel—the pious, praying Ulrika!" and the old woman trembled with rage and excitement. "Out of my power? Never, never! As long as there is breath in my body I will hold you down! NOT a murderess, you say—?"

"No," said Ulrika very calmly, with a keen look, "I am NOT—but you ARE!"

CHAPTER XVI.

"Il n'y a personne qui ait eu autant a souffrir a votre sujet que
moi depuis ma naissance! aussi je vous supplie a deux genoux et an
nom de Dien, d'avoir pitie de moi!"—Old Breton Ballad.

In a few more days Thelma's engagement to Sir Philip Bruce-Errington was the talk of the neighborhood. The news spread gradually, having been, in the first place, started by Britta, whose triumph in her mistress's happiness was charming to witness. It reached the astonished and reluctant ears of the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, whose rage was so great that it destroyed his appetite for twenty-four hours. But the general impression in the neighborhood, where superstition maintained so strong a hold on the primitive and prejudiced minds of the people, was that the reckless young Englishman would rue the day on which he wedded "the white witch of the Altenfjord."

Guldmar was regarded with more suspicion than ever, as having used some secret and diabolical influence to promote the match; and the whole party were, as it seemed, tabooed, and looked upon as given up to the most unholy practices.

Needless to say, the opinions of the villagers had no effect whatever on the good spirits of those who were thus unfavorably criticised, and it would have been difficult to find a merrier group than that assembled one fine morning in front of Guldmar's house, all equipped from top to toe for some evidently unusually lengthy and arduous mountain excursion. Each man carried a long, stout stick, portable flask, knapsack, and rug—the latter two articles strapped together and slung across the shoulder—and they all presented an eminently picturesque appearance, particularly Sigurd, who stood at a little distance from the others, leaning on his tall staff and gazing at Thelma with an air of peculiar pensiveness and abstraction.

She was at that moment busied in adjusting Errington's knapsack more comfortably, her fair, laughing face turned up to his, and her bright eyes alight with love and tender solicitude.

"I've a good mind not to go at all," he whispered in her ear. "I'll come back and stay with you all day."

"You foolish boy!" she answered merrily. "You would miss seeing the grand fall—all for what? To sit with me and watch me spinning, and you would grow so very sleepy! Now, if I were a man, I would go with you."

"I'm very glad you're not a man!" said Errington, pressing the little hand that had just buckled his shoulderstrap. "Though I wish you WERE going with us. But I say, Thelma, darling, won't you be lonely?"

She laughed gaily. "Lonely? I? Why, Britta is with me—besides, I am never lonely NOW." She uttered the last word softly, with a shy, upward glance. "I have so much to think about—" She paused and drew her hand away from her lover's close clasp. "Ah," she resumed, with a mischievous smile, "you are a conceited boy! You want to be missed! You wish me to say that I shall feel most miserable all the time you are away! If I do, I shall not tell you!"

"Thelma, child?" called Olaf Guldmar, at this juncture "keep the gates bolted and doors barred while we are absent. Remember, thou and Britta must pass the night alone here,—we cannot be at home till late in the evening of to-morrow. Let no one inside the garden, and deny thyself to all comers. Dost thou hear"

"Yes, father," she responded meekly.

"And let Britta keep good guard that her crazy hag of a grandam come not hither to disturb or fright thee with her croaking,—for thou hast not even Sigurd to protect thee."

"Not even Sigurd!" said that personage, with a meditative smile. "No, mistress; not even poor Sigurd!"

"One of us might remain behind," suggested Lorimer, with a side-look at his friend.

"Oh no, no!" exclaimed Thelma anxiously. "It would vex me so much! Britta and I have often been alone before. We are quite safe, are we not, father?"

"Safe enough!" said the old man, with a laugh. "I know of no one save Lovisa Elsland who has the courage to face thee, child! Still, pretty witch as thou art, 'twill not harm thee to put the iron bar across the house door, and to lock fast the outer gate when we have gone. This done, I have no fear of thy safety. Now," and he kissed his daughter heartily, "now lads, 'tis time we were on the march! Sigurd, my boy, lead on!"

"Wait!" cried Sigurd, springing to Thelma's side. "I must say good- bye!" And he caught the girl's hand and kissed it,—then plucking a rose, he left it between her fingers. "That will remind you of Sigurd, mistress! Think of him once to-day!—once again when the midnight glory shines. Good-bye, mistress! that is what the dead say,. . . Good-bye!"

And with a passionate gesture of farewell, he ran and placed himself at the head of the little group that waited for him, saying exultingly—

"Now follow me! Sigurd knows the way! Sigurd is the friend of all the wild waterfall! Up the hills,—across the leaping stream,— through the sparkling foam!" And he began chanting to himself a sort of wild mountain song.

Macfarlane looked at him dubiously. "Are ye sure?" he said to Guldmar. "Are ye sure that wee chap kens whaur he's gaun? He'll no lead us into a ditch an' leave us there, mistakin' it for the Fall?"

Guldmar laughed heartily. "Never fear! Sigurd's the best guide you can have, in spite of his fancies. He knows all the safest and surest paths; and Njedegorze is no easy place to reach, I can tell you!"

"Pardon! How is it called?" asked Duprez eagerly.

"Njedegorze."

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "I give it up!" he said smilingly. "Mademoiselle Guldmar, if anything happens to me at this cascade with the name unpronounceable, you will again be my doctor, will you not?"

Thelma laughed as she shook hands with him. "Nothing will happen," she rejoined; "unless, indeed, you catch cold by sleeping in a hut all night. Father, you must see that they do not catch cold!"

The bonde nodded, and motioned the party forward, Sigurd leading the way,—Errington, however, lingered behind on pretense of having forgotten something, and, drawing his betrothed in his arms, kissed her fondly.

"Take care of yourself, darling!" he murmured,—and then hurrying away he rejoined his friends, who had discreetly refrained from looking back, and therefore had not seen the lovers embrace.

Sigurd, however, had seen it, and the sight apparently gave fresh impetus to his movements, for he sprang up the adjacent hill with so much velocity that those who followed had some difficulty to keep up with him,—and it was not till they were out of sight of the farmhouse that he resumed anything like a reasonable pace.

As soon as they had disappeared, Thelma turned into the house and seated herself at her spinning-wheel. Britta soon entered the room, carrying the same graceful implement of industry, and the two maidens sat together for some time in a silence unbroken, save by the low melodious whirring of the two wheels, and the mellow complaints of the strutting doves on the window-sill.

"Froken Thelma!" said Britta at last, timidly.

"Yes, Britta?" And her mistress looked up inquiringly.

"Of what use is it for you to spin now?" queried the little handmaid. "You will be a great lady, and great ladies do not work at all!"

Thelma's wheel revolved more and more slowly, till at last it stopped altogether.

"Do they not?" she said half inquiringly and musingly. "I think you must be wrong, Britta. It is impossible that there should be people who are always idle. I do not know what great ladies are like."

"I do!" And Britta nodded her curly head sagaciously. "There was a girl from Hammerfest who went to Christiania to seek service—she was handy at her needle, and a fine spinner, and a great lady took her right away from Norway to London. And the lady bought her spinning-wheel for a curiosity she said,—and put it in the corner of a large parlor, and used to show it to her friends, and they would all laugh and say, 'How pretty!' And Jansena,—that was the girl—never span again—she wore linen that she got from the shops,- -and it was always falling into holes, and Jansena was always mending, mending, and it was no good!"

Thelma laughed. "Then it is better to spin, after all, Britta—is it not?"

Britta looked dubious. "I do not know," she answered; "but I am sure great ladies do not spin. Because, as I said to you, Froken, this Jansena's mistress was a great lady, and she never did anything,— no! nothing at all,—but she put on wonderful dresses, and sat in her room, or was driven about in a carriage. And that is what you will do also, Froken!"

"Oh no, Britta," said Thelma decisively. "I could not be so idle. Is it not fortunate I have so much linen ready? I have quite enough for marriage."

The little maid looked wistful. "Yes, dear Froken," she murmured hesitatingly; "but I was thinking if it is right for you to wear what you have spun. Because, you see, Jansena's mistress had wonderful things all trimmed with lace,—and they would all come back from the washing torn and hanging in threads, and Jansena had to mend those as well as her own clothes. You see, they do not last at all—and they cost a large sum of money; but it is proper for great ladies to wear them."

"I am not sure of that, Britta," said Thelma, still musingly. "But still, it may be—my bridal things may not please Philip. If you know anything about it, you must tell me what is right."

Britta was in a little perplexity. She had gathered some idea from her friend Jansena concerning life in London,—she had even a misty notion of what was meant by a "trousseau" with all its dainty, expensive, and often useless fripperies; but she did not know how to explain her-self to her young mistress, whose simple, almost severe tastes would, she instinctively felt, recoil from anything like ostentation in dress, so she was discreetly silent.

"You know, Britta," continued Thelma gently, "I shall be Philip's wife, and I must not vex him in any little thing. But I do not quite understand. I have always dressed in the same way,—and he has never said that he thought me wrongly clothed."

And she looked down with quite a touching pathos at her straight, white woolen gown, and smoothed its folds doubtfully. The impulsive Britta sprang to her side and kissed her with girlish and unaffected enthusiasm.

"My dear, my dear! You are more lovely and sweet than anybody in the world!" she cried. "And I am sure Sir Philip thinks so too!"

A beautiful roseate flush suffused Thelma's cheeks, and she smiled.

"Yes, I know he does!" she replied softly. "And, after all, it does not matter what one wears."

Britta was meditating,—she looked lovingly at her mistress's rippling wealth of hair.

"Diamonds!" she murmured to herself in a sort of satisfied soliloquy. "Diamonds, like those you have on your finger, Froken,— diamonds all scattered among your curls like dew-drops! And white satin, all shining, shining!—people would take you for an angel!"

Thelma laughed merrily. "Britta, Britta! You are talking such nonsense! Nobody dresses so grandly except queens in fairy-tales."

"Do they not?" and the wise Britta looked more profound than ever. "Well, we shall see, dear Froken—we shall see!"

"WE?" queried Thelma with surprised emphasis.

Her little maid blushed vividly, and looked down demurely, twisting and untwisting the string of her apron.

"Yes, Froken," she said in a low tone. "I have asked Sir Philip to let me go with you when you leave Norway."

"Britta!" Thelma's astonishment was too great for more than this exclamation.

"Oh, my dear! don't be angry with me!" implored Britta, with sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and excited tongue all pleading eloquently together, "I should die here without you! I told the bonde so; I did, indeed I And then I went to Sir Philip—he is such a grand gentleman,—so proud and yet so kind,—and I asked him to let me still be your servant. I said I knew all great ladies had a maid, and if I was not clever enough I could learn, and—and—" here Britta began to sob, "I said I did not want any wages—only to live in a little corner of the same house where you were,—to sew for you, and see you, and hear your voice sometimes—" Here the poor little maiden broke down altogether and hid her face in her apron crying bitterly.

The tears were in Thelma's eyes too, and she hastened to put her arm round Britta's waist, and tried to soothe her by every loving word she could think of.

"Hush, Britta dear! you must not cry," she said tenderly. "What did Philip say?"

"He said," jerked out Britta convulsively, "that I was a g-good little g-girl, and that he was g-glad I wanted to g-go!" Here her two sparkling wet eyes peeped out of the apron inquiringly, and seeing nothing but the sweetest affection on Thelma's attentive face, she went on more steadily. "He p-pinched my cheek, and he laughed—and he said he would rather have me for your maid than anybody—there!"

And this last exclamation was uttered with so much defiance that she dashed away the apron altogether, and stood erect in self- congratulatory glory, with a particularly red little nose and very trembling lips. Thelma smiled, and caressed the tumbled brown curls.

"I am very glad, Britta!" she said earnestly. "Nothing could have pleased me more! I must thank Philip. But it is of father I am thinking—what will father and Sigurd do?"

"Oh, that is all settled, Froken," said Britta, recovering herself rapidly from her outburst. "The bonde means to go for one of his long voyages in the Valkyrie—it is time she was used again, I'm sure,—and Sigurd will go with him. It will do them both good—and the tongues of Bosekop can waggle as much as they please, none of us will be here to mind them!"

&qu

Thelma

Marie Corelli