red 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 Arles, 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 you 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 Gueldmar's fine face softened with pity, and he replied--

"Sigurd? Have