"You are very kind to say so, Miss Güldmar!"
"It is not kindness; it is the truth!" she replied frankly.
At that moment a very rosy face and two sparkling eyes peered in at the door.
"Yes, Britta!" Thelma smiled; "we are quite ready!"
Whereupon the face disappeared, and Olaf Güldmar led the way into the kitchen, which was at the same time the dining-room, and where a substantial supper was spread on the polished pine table.
The farmer's great arm-chair was brought in for Duprèz, who, though he declared he was being spoilt by too much attention, seemed to enjoy it immensely,--and they were all, including Britta, soon clustered round the hospitable board whereon antique silver and quaint glasses of foreign make sparkled bravely, their effect enhanced by the snowy whiteness of the homespun table-linen.
A few minutes set them all talking gaily. Macfarlane vied with the ever-gallant Duprèz in making a few compliments to Britta, who was pretty and engaging enough to merit attention, and who, after all, was something more than a mere servant, possessing, as she did, a great deal of her young mistress's affection and confidence, and being always treated by Güldmar himself as one of the family. There was no reserve or coldness in the party, and the hum of their merry voices echoed up to the cross-rafters of the stout wooden ceiling and through the open door and window, from whence a patch of the gorgeous afternoon sky could be seen, glimmering redly, like a distant lake of fire. They were in the full enjoyment of their repast, and the old farmer's rollicking "Ha, ha, ha!" in response to a joke of Lorimer's, had just echoed jovially through the room, when a strong, harsh voice called aloud--"Olaf Güldmar!"
There was a sudden silence. Each one looked at the other in surprise. Again the voice called--"Olaf Güldmar!"
"Well!" roared the bonde testily, turning sharply round in his chair, "who calls me?"
"I do!" and the tall, emaciated figure of a woman advanced and stood on the threshold, without actually entering the room. She dropped the black shawl that enveloped her, and, in so doing, disordered her hair, which fell in white, straggling locks about her withered features, and her dark eyes gleamed maliciously as she fixed them on the assembled party. Britta, on perceiving her, uttered a faint shriek, and without considering the propriety of her action, buried her nut-brown curls and sparkling eyes in Duprèz's coat-sleeve, which, to do the Frenchman justice, was exceedingly prompt to receive and shelter its fair burden. The bonde rose from his chair, and his face grew stern.