Britta laughed delightedly. "Yes! she will not find her way to England
without some trouble!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how happy I shall be! And
you"--she looked pleadingly at her mistress--"you do not dislike me for
your servant?"

"Dislike!" and Thelma gave her a glance of mingled reproach and
tenderness. "You know how fond I am of you, Britta! It will be like
having a little bit of my old home always with me."

Silently Britta kissed her hand, and then resumed her work. The
monotonous murmur of the two wheels recommenced,--this time pleasantly
accompanied by the rippling chatter of the two girls, who, after the
fashion of girls all the world over, indulged in many speculations as to
the new and strange life that lay before them.

Their ideas were of the most primitive character,--Britta had never been
out of Norway, and Thelma's experiences, apart from her home life,
extended merely to the narrow and restricted bounds of simple and severe
convent discipline, where she had been taught that the pomps and
vanities of the world were foolish and transient shows, and that nothing
could please God more than purity and rectitude of soul. Her character
was formed, and set upon a firm basis--firmer than she herself was
conscious of. The nuns who had been entrusted with her education had
fulfilled their task with more than their customary zeal--they were
interested in the beautiful Norwegian child for the sake of her mother,
who had also been their charge. One venerable nun in particular had
bestowed a deep and lasting benefit on her, for, seeing her
extraordinary beauty, and forestalling the dangers and temptations into
which the possession of such exceptional charms might lead her, she
adopted a wise preventive course, that cased her as it were in armor,
proof against all the assailments of flattery. She told the girl quite
plainly that she was beautiful,--but at the same time made her aware
that beauty was common,--that she shared it alike with birds, flowers,
trees, and all the wonderful objects of nature--moreover, that it was
nothing to boast of, being so perishable.

"Suppose a rose foolish enough to boast of its pretty leaves," said the
gentle _religieuse_ on one occasion. "They all fall to the ground in a
short time, and become decayed and yellow--it is only the fragrance, or
the _soul_ of the rose that lasts." Such precepts, that might have been
wasted on a less sensitive and thoughtful nature, sank deeply into
Thelma'