at is, as far as he would permit
them--for the unhappy dwarf was uncertain of temper, and if at one hour
he were docile and yielding as a child, the next he would be found
excited and furious at some imaginary slight that he fancied had been
inflicted upon him. Sometimes, if good-humored, he would talk almost
rationally,--only allowing his fancy to play with poetical ideas
concerning the sea, the flowers, or the sunlight,--but he was far more
often sullen and silent. He would draw a low chair to Thelma's side, and
sit there with half-closed eyes and compressed lips, and none could tell
whether he listened to the conversation around him, or was utterly
indifferent to it. He had taken a notable fancy to Lorimer, but he
avoided Errington in the most marked and persistent manner. The latter
did his best to overcome this unreasonable dislike, but his efforts were
useless,--and deciding in his own mind that it was best to humor
Sigurd's vagaries, he soon let him alone, and devoted his attention more
entirely to Thelma.

One evening, after supper at the farmhouse, Lorimer, who for some time
had been watching Philip and Thelma conversing together in low tones
near the open window, rose from his seat quietly, without disturbing the
hilarity of the _bonde_, who was in the middle of a rollicking
sea-story, told for Macfarlane's entertainment,--and slipped out into
the garden, where he strolled along rather absently till he found
himself in the little close thicket of pines,--the very same spot where
he and Philip had stood on the first day of their visit thither. He
threw himself down on the soft emerald moss and lit a cigar, sighing
rather drearily as he did so.

"Upon my life," he mused, with a half-smile, "I am very nearly being a
hero,--a regular stage-martyr,--the noble creature of the piece! By
Jove, I wish I were a soldier! I'm certain I could stand the enemy's
fire better than this! Self-denial? Well, no wonder the preachers make
such a fuss about it, It's a tough, uncomfortable duty. But am I
self-denying? Not a bit of it! Look here, George Lorimer"--here he
tapped himself very vigorously on his broad chest--"don't you imagine
yourself to be either virtuous or magnanimous! If you were anything of a
man at all you would never let your feelings get the better of you,--you
would be sublimely indifferent, stoically calm,--and, as it is,--you
know what a sneaking, hang-dog state of envy you were in just now when
you came out