She met its glance as one fascinated,--almost unconsciously her fingers dropped from the door-handle,--the little baby still looked at her in dreamlike, meditative fashion,--its mother slept profoundly. She bent lower and lower over the child. With a beating heart she ventured to touch the small, pink hand that lay outside its wrappings like a softly curved rose-leaf. With a sort of elf-like confidence and contentment the feeble, wee fingers closed and curled round hers,--and held her fast! Weak as a silken thread, yet stronger in its persuasive force than a grasp of iron, that soft, light pressure controlled and restrained her, . . . very gradually the mists of her mind cleared,--the rattling, thunderous dash of the train grew less dreadful, less monotonous, less painful to her sense of hearing,--her bosom heaved convulsively, and all suddenly her eyes filled with tears--merciful tears, which at first welled up slowly, and were hot as fire, but which soon began to fall faster and faster in large, bright drops down her pale cheeks. Seeing that its mother still slept, she took the baby gently into her own fair arms,--and rocked it to and fro with many a sobbing murmur of tenderness;--the little thing smiled drowsily and soon fell asleep again, all unconscious that its timely look and innocent touch had saved poor Thelma's life and reason.
She, meanwhile, wept on softly, till her tired brain and heart were somewhat relieved of their heavy burden,--the entanglement of her thoughts became unravelled,--and, though keenly aware of the blank desolation of her life, she was able to raise herself in spirit to the Giver of all Love and Consolation, and to pray humbly for that patience and resignation which now alone could serve her needs. And she communed with herself and God in silence, as the train rushed on northwards. Her fellow-traveller woke up as they were nearing their destination, and, seeing her holding the baby, was profuse in her thanks for this kindness. And when they at last reached Hull, about half an hour after midnight, the good woman was exceedingly anxious to know if she could be of any service,--but Thelma gently, yet firmly, refused all her offers of assistance.
They parted in the most friendly manner,--Thelma kissing the child, through whose unconscious means, as she now owned to herself, she had escaped a terrible death,--and then she went directly to a quiet hotel she knew of, which was kept by a native of Christiania, a man who had formerly been acquainted with her father. At first, when this worthy individual saw a lady arrive, alone, young, richly dressed, and without luggage, he was inclined to be suspicious,--but as soon as she addressed him in Norwegian, and told him who she was, he greeted her with the utmost deference and humility.