he was gone. She
had departed to her own house in Bosekop, where she obstinately
remained. Nothing would induce her to present herself again before Sir
Philip or Thelma, and it was not till many days after they had left the
Altenfjord that she was once more seen about the village. And then she
was a changed being. No longer harsh or forbidding in manner, she became
humble and gentle,--she ministered to the sick, and consoled the
afflicted--but she was especially famous for her love of children. All
the little ones of the place knew her, and were attracted by her,--and
the time came when Ulrika, white-haired, and of peaceful countenance,
could be seen knitting at her door in the long summer afternoons
surrounded by a whole army of laughing, chattering, dimpled youngsters,
who would play at hide-and-seek behind her chair, and clamber up to kiss
her wrinkled cheeks, putting their chubby arms round her neck with that
guileless confidence children show only to those whom they feel can
appreciate such flattering attentions. Some of her acquaintance were
wont to say that she was no longer the "godly" Ulrika--but however this
might be, it is certain she had drifted a little nearer to the Author of
all godliness, which--after all,--is the most we dare to strive for in
all our differing creeds.

It was not long before Thelma began to recover. The day after her
husband arrived, and Ulrika departed, she rose from her bed with
Britta's assistance, and sat by the blazing fire, wrapped in her white
gown and looking very fragile, though very lovely, Philip had been
talking to her for some time, and now he sat at her feet, holding her
hand in his, and, watching her face, on which there was an expression of
the most plaintive and serious penitence.

"I have been very wicked!" she said, with such a quaint horror of
herself that her husband laughed. "Now I look back upon it all, I think
I have behaved so very badly! because I ought never to have doubted you,
my boy--no--not for all the Lady Winsleighs in the world. And poor Mr.
Neville! he must be so unhappy! But it was that letter--that letter in
your own writing, Philip!"

"Of course!" he answered soothingly. "No wonder you thought me a
dreadful fellow! But you won't do so again, will you, Thelma? You will
believe that you are the crown and centre of my life--the joy of all the
world to me?"

"Yes, I will!" she said softly and proudly. "Though it is always the
same, I never do think