"Tu vas faire un beau rève,

Et t'enivrer d'un plaisir dangereux.

Sur ton chemin l'étoile qui se leve

Longtemps encore éblouira les yeux!"DE MUSSET.

A fortnight passed. The first excursion in the Eulalie had been followed by others of a similar kind, and Errington's acquaintance with the Güldmars was fast ripening into a pleasant intimacy. It had grown customary for the young men to spend that part of the day which, in spite of persistent sunshine, they still called evening, in the comfortable, quaint parlor of the old farmhouse,--looking at the view through the rose-wreathed windows,--listening to the fantastic legends of Norway as told by Olaf Güldmar,--or watching Thelma's picturesque figure, as she sat pensively apart in her shadowed corner spinning. They had fraternized with Sigurd too--that is, as far as he would permit them--for the unhappy dwarf was uncertain of temper, and if at one hour he were docile and yielding as a child, the next he would be found excited and furious at some imaginary slight that he fancied had been inflicted upon him.

Sometimes, if good-humored, he would talk almost rationally,--only allowing his fancy to play with poetical ideas concerning the sea, the flowers, or the sunlight,--but he was far more often sullen and silent. He would draw a low chair to Thelma's side, and sit there with half-closed eyes and compressed lips, and none could tell whether he listened to the conversation around him, or was utterly indifferent to it. He had taken a notable fancy to Lorimer, but he avoided Errington in the most marked and persistent manner. The latter did his best to overcome this unreasonable dislike, but his efforts were useless,--and deciding in his own mind that it was best to humor Sigurd's vagaries, he soon let him alone, and devoted his attention more entirely to Thelma.

One evening, after supper at the farmhouse, Lorimer, who for some time had been watching Philip and Thelma conversing together in low tones near the open window, rose from his seat quietly, without disturbing the hilarity of the bonde, who was in the middle of a rollicking sea-story, told for Macfarlane's entertainment,--and slipped out into the garden, where he strolled along rather absently till he found himself in the little close thicket of pines,--the very same spot where he and Philip had stood on the first day of their visit thither. He threw himself down on the soft emerald moss and lit a cigar, sighing rather drearily as he did so.




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