sound came floating to meet them--a
sound which made them pause and look at each other in surprise and
anxiety. Some one was singing,--a voice full and clear, though with a
strange, uncertain quiver in it, rippled out in wild strains of minor
melody on the snow-laden air. For one moment Ulrika listened doubtedly,
and then without more delay ran hastily forward and entered the house.
Thelma was there,--sitting at the lattice window which she had thrown
wide open to the icy blast,--she had taken off her cloak and hat, and
her hair, unbound, fell about her in a great, glittering tangle of
gold,--her hands were busy manipulating an imaginary spinning-wheel--her
eyes were brilliant as jewels, but full of pain, terror, and pathos. She
smiled a piteous smile as she became hazily conscious that there were
others in the room--but she went on with her song--a mournful, Norwegian
ditty,--till a sudden break in her voice caused her to put her hand to
her throat and look up perplexedly.

"That song pleases you?" she asked softly, "I am very glad! Has Sigurd
come home? He wanders so much, poor boy! Father, dear, you must tell him
how wrong it is not to love Philip. Every one loves Philip--and I--I
love him too, but he must never know that." She paused and sighed. "That
is my secret,--the only one I have!" And she drooped her fair head
forlornly.

Moved by intense pity, such as she had never felt in all her life
before, Ulrika went up and tried to draw her gently from the window.

"Poor thing, poor thing!" she said kindly. "Come away with me, and lie
down! You mustn't sit here,--let me shut the lattice,--it's quite late
at night, and too cold for you, my dear."

"Too cold?" and Thelma eyed her wonderingly. "Why, it is summer-time,
and the sun never sets! The roses are all about the walls--I gave one to
Philip yesterday--a little pale rose with a crimson heart. He wore it,
and seemed glad!"

She passed her hand across her forehead with a troubled air, and watched
Ulrika, who quietly closed the window against the darkness and
desolation of the night. "Are you a friend?" she asked presently in
anxious tones. "I know so many that say they are my friends--but I am
afraid of them all--and I have left them. Do you know why?" and she laid
her hand on Ulrika's rough arm. "Because they tell me my Philip does not
love me any more. They are very cruel to say so, and I think it cannot
be true. I want to tell my father what they say--because