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 Gueldmar, 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.
Gueldmar 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