h green,
transparent tunnels of fern and waving grass--leaping now and then with
a swift dash over a smooth block of stone or jagged rock--but for the
most part gliding softly, with a happy, self-satisfied murmur, as though
it were some drowsy spirit dreaming joyous dreams. Here nodded the
grave, purple-leaved pansies,--legendary consolers of the heart,--their
little, quaint, expressive physiognomies turned in every direction; up
to the sky, as though absorbing the sunlight,--down to the ground, with
an almost severe air of meditation, or curled sideways on their stems in
a sort of sly reflectiveness.

Sigurd was among them at once--they were his friends,--his playmates,
his favorites,--and he gathered them quickly, yet tenderly, murmuring as
he did so, "Yes, you must all die; but death does not hurt; no! life
hurts, but not death! See! as I pluck you, you all grow wings and fly
away--away to other meadows, and bloom again." He paused, and a puzzled
look came into his eyes. He turned toward Thelma, who had seated herself
on a little knoll just above the stream, "Tell me, mistress," he said,
"do the flowers go to heaven?"

She smiled. "I think so, dear Sigurd," she said; "I hope so! I am almost
sure they do."

Sigurd nodded with an air of satisfaction.

"That is right," he observed. "It would never do to leave them behind,
you know! They would be missed, and we should have to come down again
and fetch them--" A crackling among the branches of some trees startled
him,--he looked round, and uttered a peculiar cry like the cry of a wild
animal, and exclaimed, "Spies, spies! ha! ha! secret, wicked faces that
are afraid to show themselves! Come out! Mistress, mistress! make them
come out!"

Thelma rose, surprised as his gesticulations, and came towards him; to
her utter astonishment she found herself confronted by old Lovisa
Elsland, and the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy's servant, Ulrika. On both
women's faces there was a curious expression of mingled fear, triumph,
and malevolence. Lovisa was the first to break silence.

"At last!" she croaked, in a sort of slow, monotonous tone "At last,
Thelma Gueldmar, the Lord has delivered you into my hands!"

Thelma drew Sigurd close to her, and slipped one arm around him.

"Poor soul!" she said softly, with sweet pitying eyes fixed fearlessly
on the old hag's withered, evil visage. "You must be tired, wandering
about on the hills as you do! If you are her friend," she added,
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