and make
merriment for the whole party. His old admiration for Britta had by no
means decreased,--he was fond of waylaying that demure little maiden on
her various household errands, and giving her small posies of jessamine
and other sweet-scented blossoms to wear just above the left-hand corner
of her apron-bib, close to the place where the heart is supposed to be.
Olaf Gueldmar had been invited to the Manor at this period,--Errington
wrote many urgent letters, and so did Thelma, entreating him to
come,--for nothing would have pleased Sir Philip more than to have
introduced the fine old Odin worshipper among his fashionable friends,
and to have heard him bluntly and forcibly holding his own among them,
putting their feint and languid ways of life to shame by his manly,
honest, and vigorous utterance. But Gueldmar had only just returned to
the Altenfjord after nearly a year's absence, and his hands were too
full of work for him to accept his son-in-law's invitation.

"The farm lands have a waste and dreary look," he wrote, "though I let
them to a man who should verily have known how to till the soil trodden
by his fathers--and as for the farmhouse, 'twas like a hollow shell that
has lain long on the shore and become brown and brittle--for thou
knowest no human creature has entered there since we departed. However,
Valdemar Svensen and I, for sake of company, have resolved to dwell
together in it, and truly we have nearly settled down to the peaceful
contemplation of our past days,--so Philip, and thou, my child Thelma,
trouble not concerning me. I am hale and hearty, the gods be
thanked,--and may live on in hope to see you both next spring or
summer-tide. Your happiness keeps this old man young--so grudge me not
the news of your delights wherein I am myself delighted."

One familiar figure was missing from the Manor household,--that of
Edward Neville. Since the night at the Brilliant, when he had left the
theatre so suddenly, and gone home on the plea of illness, he had never
been quite the same man. He looked years older--he was strangely nervous
and timid--and he shrank away from Thelma as though he were some guilty
or tainted creature. Surprised at this, she spoke to her husband about
it,--but he, hurriedly, and with some embarrassment, advised her to "let
him alone"--his "nerves were shaken"--his "health was feeble"--and that
it would be kind on her part to refrain from noticing him or asking him
questions. So she