in her face. The woman
shuddered violently. Step by step she drew near to the wondering Thelma,
and spoke in low and trembling accents, without a trace of her former
anger.

"They say you are wicked," she said slowly, "and that the devil has your
soul ready, before you are dead! But I am not afraid of you. No; I will
forgive you, and pray for you, if you will tell me, . . ." She paused,
and then continued, as with a strong effort. "Yes--tell me _who_ is this
Sigurd?"

"Sigurd is a foundling," answered Thelma simply. "He was floating about
in the Fjord in a basket, and my father saved him. He was quite a baby.
He had this scar on his chest then. He has lived with us ever since."

Ulrika looked at her searchingly,--then bent her head,--whether in
gratitude or despair it was difficult to say.

"Lovisa Elsland," she said monotonously, "I am going home. I cannot help
you any longer! I am tired--ill." Here she suddenly broke down, and,
throwing up her arms with a wild gesture, she cried, "O God, God! O
God!" and burst into a stormy passion of sobs and tears.

Thelma, touched by her utter misery, would have offered consolation, but
Lovisa repelled her with a fierce gesture.

"Go!" said the old woman harshly. "You have cast your spells upon her--I
am witness of your work! And shall you escape just punishment? No; not
while there is a God in heaven, and I, Lovisa Elsland, live to perform
His bidding! Go,--white devil that you are!--go and carry misfortune
upon misfortune to your fine gentleman-lover! Ah!" and she chuckled
maliciously as the girl recoiled from her, her proud face growing
suddenly paler, "have I touched you there? Lie in his breast, and it
shall be as though a serpent stung him,--kiss his lips, and your touch
shall be poison,--live in doubt, and die in misery! Go! and may all evil
follow you!"

She raised her staff and waved it majestically, as though she drew a
circle in the air,--Thelma smiled pityingly, but deigned no answer to
her wild ravings.

"Come, Sigurd!" she said simply, "let us return home. It is growing
late--father will wonder where we are."

"Yes, yes," agreed Sigurd, seizing the basket full of the pansies he had
plucked. "The sunshine is slipping away, and we cannot live with
shadows! These are not real women, mistress; they are dreams--black
dreams,--I have often fought with dreams, and I know how to make them
afraid! See how the one weeps because she knows me,--and the other is
just