"For who knows," mused Ulrika, "Whether it is not the Lord's hand that is extended towards me,—and that in the ministering to the wants of her whom I wronged, and whom my son so greatly loved, I may not thereby cancel the past sin, and work out my own redemption!"
And her dull eyes brightened with hope, and her heart warmed,—she began to feel almost humane and sympathetic,—and was so eager to commence her office of nurse and consoler to Thelma that she jumped out of the sledge almost before it had stopped at the farm gate. Disregarding Valdemar's assistance, she clambered sturdily over the drifted heaps of slippery snow that blocked the deserted pathways, and made for the house,—Valdemar following her as soon as he had safely fastened up the sledge, which was not his own, he having in emergency borrowed it from a neighbor. As they approached, a sound came floating to meet them—a sound which made them pause and look at each other in surprise and anxiety. Some one was singing,—a voice full and clear, though with a strange, uncertain quiver in it, rippled out in wild strains of minor melody on the snow-laden air. For one moment Ulrika listened doubtedly, and then without more delay ran hastily forward and entered the house. Thelma was there,—sitting at the lattice window which she had thrown wide open to the icy blast,—she had taken off her cloak and hat, and her hair, unbound, fell about her in a great, glittering tangle of gold,—her hands were busy manipulating an imaginary spinning-wheel—her eyes were brilliant as jewels, but full of pain, terror, and pathos. She smiled a piteous smile as she became hazily conscious that there were others in the room—but she went on with her song—a mournful, Norwegian ditty,—till a sudden break in her voice caused her to put her hand to her throat and look up perplexedly.
"That song pleases you?" she asked softly, "I am very glad! Has Sigurd come home? He wanders so much, poor boy! Father, dear, you must tell him how wrong it is not to love Philip. Every one loves Philip—and I—I love him too, but he must never know that." She paused and sighed. "That is my secret,—the only one I have!" And she drooped her fair head forlornly.
Moved by intense pity, such as she had never felt in all her life before, Ulrika went up and tried to draw her gently from the window.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" she said kindly. "Come away with me, and lie down! You mustn't sit here,—let me shut the lattice,—it's quite late at night, and too cold for you, my dear."
"Too cold?" and Thelma eyed her wonderingly. "Why, it is summer-time, and the sun never sets! The roses are all about the walls—I gave one to Philip yesterday—a little pale rose with a crimson heart. He wore it, and seemed glad!"
She passed her hand across her forehead with a troubled air, and watched Ulrika, who quietly closed the window against the darkness and desolation of the night. "Are you a friend?" she asked presently in anxious tones. "I know so many that say they are my friends—but I am afraid of them all—and I have left them. Do you know why?" and she laid her hand on Ulrika's rough arm. "Because they tell me my Philip does not love me any more. They are very cruel to say so, and I think it cannot be true. I want to tell my father what they say—because he will know—and if it is true, then I wish to die,—I could not live! Will you take me to my father?"
The plaintive, pleading gentleness of her voice and look brought more tears into Ulrika's eyes than had ever been forced there by her devotional exercises,—and the miserable Valdemar, already broken-hearted by his master's death, turned away and sobbingly cursed his gods for this new and undeserved affliction. As the Italian peasantry fall to abusing their saints in time of trouble, even so will the few remaining believers in Norse legendary lore, upbraid their fierce divinities with the most reckless hardihood when things go wrong. There were times when Valdemar Svensen secretly quailed at the mere thought of the wrath of Odin,—there were others when he was ready to pluck the great god by the beard and beat him with the flat of his own drawn sword. This was his humor at the present moment, as he averted his gaze from the pitiful sight of his "King's" fair daughter all desolate and woe-begone, her lovely face pale with anguish,—her sweet wits wandering, and her whole demeanor that of one who is lost in some dark forest, and is weary unto death. She studied Ulrika's rough visage attentively, and presently noticed the tears on her cheeks.
"You are crying!" she said in a tone of grave surprise. "Why? It is foolish to cry even when the heart aches. I have found that,—no one in the world ever pities you! But perhaps you do not know the world,—ah! it is very hard and cold;—all the people hide their feelings, and pretend to be what they are not. It is difficult to live so,—and I am tired!"
She rose from her chair, and stood up unsteadily, stretching out her little cold white hands to Ulrika, who folded them in her own strong coarse palms. "Yes—I am very tired!" she went on dreamily. "There seems to be nothing that is true—all is false and unreal—I cannot understand! But you seem kind,"—here her swaying figure tottered, and Ulrika drew her more closely to herself—"I think I know you—you came with me in the train, did you not? Yes—and the little baby smiled and slept in my arms nearly all the way." A violent shuddering seized her, and a quiver of agony passed over her face.