"O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!

Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime

Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb

Thine upward steps, and daily and by night

To gaze beyond them and to search aright

The far-off splendor of thy track sublime."

ERIC MACKAY'S Love-letters of a Violinist.

On the following morning the heat was intense,--no breath of wind stirred a ripple on the Fjord, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. Such hot weather was unusual for that part of Norway, and according to Valdemar Svensen, betokened some change. On board the Eulalie everything was ready for the trip to Soroe,--steam was getting up prior to departure,--and a group of red-capped sailors stood prepared to weigh the anchor as soon as the signal was given. Breakfast was over,--Macfarlane was in the saloon writing his journal, which he kept with great exactitude, and Duprèz, who, on account of his wound, was considered something of an invalid, was seated in a lounge chair on deck, delightedly turning over a bundle of inflammatory French political journals received that morning. Errington and Lorimer were pacing the deck arm in arm, keeping a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the returning boat which had been sent off to fetch Thelma and her father. Errington looked vexed and excited,--Lorimer bland and convincing.

"I can't help it, Phil!" he said. "It's no use fretting and fuming at me. It was like Dyceworthy's impudence, of course,--but there's no doubt he proposed to her,--and it's equally certain that she rejected him. I thought I'd tell you you had a rival,--not in me, as you seemed to think yesterday,--but in our holy fat friend."

"Rival! pshaw!" returned Errington, with an angry laugh. "He is not worth kicking!"

"Possibly not! Still I have a presentiment that he's the sort of fellow that won't take 'no' for an answer. He'll dodge that poor girl and make her life miserable if he can, unless--"

"Unless what?" asked Philip quickly.

Lorimer stopped in his walk, and, leaning against the deck-railings, looked his friend straight in the eyes.

"Unless you settle the matter," he said with a slight effort. "You love her,--tell her so!"

Errington laid one hand earnestly on his shoulder.

"Ah, George, you don't understand!" he said in a low tone, while his face was grave and full of trouble. "I used to think I was fairly brave, but I find I am a positive coward. I dare not tell her! She--Thelma--is not like other women. You may think me a fool,--I dare say you do,--but I swear to you I am afraid to speak, because--because, old boy,--if she were to refuse me,--if I knew there was no hope--well, I don't want to be sentimental,--but my life would be utterly empty and worthless,--so useless, that I doubt if I should care to live it out to the bitter end!"




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