"Can you tell me," he said, addressing Valdemar again in distinct accents, "whether there is any place, person, or thing near here called Thelma?"
The pilot started; a look of astonishment and fear came into his eyes; his hand went instinctively to his red cap, as though in deference to the name.
"The Fröken Thelma!" he exclaimed, in low tones. "Is it possible that you have seen her?"
"Ah, George, what do you say now?" cried Errington delightedly. "Yes, yes, Valdemar; the Fröken Thelma, as you call her. Who is she? . . . What is she?—and how can there be no pretty girls in Bosekop if such a beautiful creature as she lives there?"
Valdemar looked troubled and vexed.
"Truly, I thought not of the maiden," he said gravely. "'Tis not for me to speak of the daughter of Olaf," here his voice sank a little, and his face grew more and more sombre. "Pardon me, sir, but how did you meet her?"
"By accident," replied Errington promptly, not caring to relate his morning's adventure for the pilot's benefit. "Is she some great personage here?"
Svensen sighed, and smiled somewhat dubiously.
"Great? Oh, no; not what you would call great. Her father, Olaf Güldmar, is a bonde,—that is, a farmer in his own right. He has a goodly house, and a few fair acres well planted and tilled,—also he pays his men freely,—but those that work for him are all he sees,—neither he nor his daughter ever visit the town. They dwell apart, and have nothing in common with their neighbors."
"And where do they live?" asked Lorimer, becoming as interested as he had formerly been incredulous.