"I am afraid you are very tired, my friend?" she asked softly, "or your head aches,--and you suffer?"
He caught her hands swiftly and raised them to his lips.
"Would you care much,--would you care at all, if I suffered?" he murmured in a low tone.
Then before she could speak or move, he let go her hands again, and turned with his usual easy courtesy to Güldmar. "Then we may expect you without fail to-morrow, sir! Good night!"
"Good night, my lad!"
And with many hearty salutations the young men took their departure, raising their hats to Thelma as they turned down the winding path to the shore. She remained standing near her father,--and, when the sound of their footsteps had died away, she drew closer still and laid her head against his breast.
"Cold, my bird?" queried the old man. "Why, thou art shivering, child!--and yet the sunshine is as warm as wine. What ails thee?"
"Nothing, father!" And she raised her eyes, glowing and brilliant as stars. "Tell me,--do you think often of my mother now!"
"Often!" And Güldmar's fine resolute face grew sad and tender. "She is never absent from my mind! I see her night and day, ay! I can feel her soft arms clinging round my neck,--why dost thou ask so strange a question, little one? Is it possible to forget what has been once loved?"
Thelma was silent for many minutes. Then she kissed her father and said "good night." He held her by the hand and looked at her with a sort of vague anxiety.
"Art thou well, my child?" he asked. "This little hand burns like fire,--and thine eyes are too bright, surely, for sleep to visit them? Art sure that nothing ails thee?"
"Sure, quite sure," answered the girl with a strange, dreamy smile. "I am quite well,--and happy!"
And she turned to enter the house.
"Stay!" called the father. "Promise me thou wilt think no more of Lovisa!"
"I had nearly forgotten her," she responded. "Poor thing! She cursed me because she is so miserable, I suppose--all alone and unloved; it must be hard! Curses sometimes turn to blessings, father! Good night!"
And she ascended the one flight of wooden stairs in the house to her own bedroom--a little three-cornered place as clean and white as the interior of a shell. Never once glancing at the small mirror that seemed to invite her charms to reflect themselves therein, she went to the quaint latticed window and knelt down by it, folding her arms on the sill while she looked far out to the Fjord. She could see the English flag fluttering from the masts of the Eulalie; she could almost hear the steady plash of the oars wielded by Errington and his friends as they rowed themselves back to the yacht. Bright tears filled her eyes, and brimmed over, falling warmly on her folded hands.