ou suffered?" she whispered. "Oh, my love! . . . my
love!"

Then, as if afraid lest the very winds should have heard her
half-breathed exclamation, she shut her window in haste, and a hot blush
crimsoned her cheeks.

Undressing quickly, she slipped into her little white bed and, closing
her eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of
love in which all bright hopes reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet
were in some strange way crossed with shadows which she had no power to
disperse. And later on, when old Gueldmar slumbered soundly, and the
golden mid-night sunshine lit up every nook and gable of the farmhouse
with its lustrous glory, making Thelma's closed lattice sparkle like a
carven jewel,--a desolate figure lay prone on the grass beneath her
window, with meagre pale face, and wide-open wild blue eyes upturned to
the fiery brilliancy of the heavens. Sigurd had come home;--Sigurd was
repentant, sorrowful, ashamed,--and broken-hearted.

CHAPTER XIII.

"O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!
Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime
Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb
Thine upward steps, and daily and by night
To gaze beyond them and to search aright
The far-off splendor of thy track sublime."
ERIC MACKAY'S _Love-letters of a Violinist_.

On the following morning the heat was intense,--no breath of wind
stirred a ripple on the Fjord, and there was a heaviness in the
atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. Such
hot weather was unusual for that part of Norway, and according to
Valdemar Svensen, betokened some change. On board the _Eulalie_
everything was ready for the trip to Soroe,--steam was getting up prior
to departure,--and a group of red-capped sailors stood prepared to weigh
the anchor as soon as the signal was given. Breakfast was
over,--Macfarlane was in the saloon writing his journal, which he kept
with great exactitude, and Duprez, who, on account of his wound, was
considered something of an invalid, was seated in a lounge chair on
deck, delightedly turning over a bundle of inflammatory French political
journals received that morning. Errington and Lorimer were pacing the
deck arm in arm, keeping a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the
returning boat which had been sent off to fetch Thelma and her father.
Errington looked vexed and excited,--Lorimer bland and convincing.