orgetting all her former dread of the "white witch
of the Altenfjord"--only remembered that she held in her arms a helpless
woman with all the sorrows and pangs of womanhood thick upon her,--and
in this act of warm heart-expansion and timely tenderness, it may be
that she cleansed her soiled soul in the sight of the God she
worshipped, and won a look of pardon from the ever-watchful eyes of
Christ.

As far as mundane matters were concerned, she showed herself a woman of
prompt energy and decision. Laying Thelma gently down upon the very
couch her dead father had so lately occupied, she sent the distracted
Valdemar out to gather fresh pine-logs for the fire, and then busied
herself in bringing down Thelma's own little bed from the upper floor,
airing it with methodical care, and making it as warm and cosy as a
bird's-nest. While she was engaged in these preparations, Thelma
regained her consciousness, and began to toss and tumble and talk
deliriously; but with it all she retained the innate gentleness and
patience, and submitted to be undressed, though she began to sob
pleadingly when Ulrika would have removed her husband's miniature from
where it lay pressed against her bosom,--and taking it in her own hand
she kissed and held it fast. One by one, the dainty articles of delicate
apparel she wore were loosened and laid aside, Ulrika wondering at the
embroidered linen and costly lace, the like of which was never seen in
that part of Norway,--but wondering still more at the dazzling skin she
thus unveiled, a skin as exquisitely soft and pure as the satiny cup of
a Nile lily.

Poor Thelma sat resignedly watching her own attire taken from her, and
allowing herself to be wrapped in a comfortable loose garment of white
wadmel, as warm as eider-down, which Ulrika had found in a cupboard
upstairs, and which, indeed, had once belonged to Thelma, she and Britta
having made it together. She examined its texture now with some faint
interest--then she asked plaintively--

"Are you going to bury me? You must put me to sleep with my mother--her
name was Thelma, too. I think it is an unlucky name."

"Why, my dear?" asked Ulrika kindly, as she swept the rich tumbled hair
from the girl's eyes, and began to braid it in one long loose plait, in
order to give her greater ease.

Thelma sighed. "There is an old song that says--" She broke off. "Shall
I sing it to you?" she asked with a wild look.

"No, no," said Ulrika. "Not now. By-and