and the brilliant tranquility of the landscape, soon calmed their
over-excited feelings. Thelma was waiting for them under the porch as
usual, looking a trifle paler than her wont, after all the worry and
fright and suspense she had undergone,--but the caresses of her father
and lover soon brought back the rosy warmth on her fair face, and
restored the lustre to her eyes. Nothing was said about Sigurd's fate
just then,--when she asked for her faithful servitor, she was told he
had "gone wandering as usual," and it was not till Errington and his
friends returned to their yacht that old Gueldmar, left alone with his
daughter, broke the sad news to her very gently. But the shock, so
unexpected and terrible, was almost too much for her already overwrought
nerves,--and such tears were shed for Sigurd as Sigurd himself might
have noted with gratitude. Sigurd--the loving, devoted Sigurd--gone for
ever! Sigurd,--her playmate,--her servant,--her worshiper,--dead! Ah,
how tenderly she mourned him!--how regretfully she thought of his wild
words! "Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd!" Wistfully she wondered
if, in her absorbing love for Philip, she had neglected the poor crazed
lad,--his face, in all its pale, piteous appeal, haunted her, and her
grief for his loss was the greatest she had ever known since the day on
which she had seen her mother sink into the last long sleep. Britta,
too, wept and would not be comforted--she had been fond of Sigurd in her
own impetuous little way,--and it was some time before either she or her
mistress, could calm themselves sufficiently to retire to rest. And long
after Thelma was sleeping, with tears still wet on her cheeks, her
father sat alone under his porch, lost in melancholy meditation. Now and
then he ruffled his white hair impatiently with his hand,--his
daughter's adventure in Mr. Dyceworthy's house had vexed his proud
spirit. He knew well enough that the minister's apology meant
nothing--that the whole village would be set talking against Thelma
more, even than before,--that there was no possibility of preventing
scandal so long as Dyceworthy was there to start it. He thought and
thought and puzzled himself with probabilities--till at last, when he
finally rose to enter his dwelling for the night, he muttered
half-aloud. "If it must be, it must! And the sooner the better now, I
think, for the child's sake."

The next morning Sir Philip arrived unusually early,--and remained shut
up