"Forgive me," she murmured, "I feel ill—very ill—and cold—but do not mind—I think—I am—dying!" She could scarcely articulate these last words—she sank forward, fainting, on Ulrika's breast, and that devout disciple of Luther, forgetting all her former dread of the "white witch of the Altenfjord"—only remembered that she held in her arms a helpless woman with all the sorrows and pangs of womanhood thick upon her,—and in this act of warm heart-expansion and timely tenderness, it may be that she cleansed her soiled soul in the sight of the God she worshipped, and won a look of pardon from the ever-watchful eyes of Christ.
As far as mundane matters were concerned, she showed herself a woman of prompt energy and decision. Laying Thelma gently down upon the very couch her dead father had so lately occupied, she sent the distracted Valdemar out to gather fresh pine-logs for the fire, and then busied herself in bringing down Thelma's own little bed from the upper floor, airing it with methodical care, and making it as warm and cosy as a bird's-nest. While she was engaged in these preparations, Thelma regained her consciousness, and began to toss and tumble and talk deliriously; but with it all she retained the innate gentleness and patience, and submitted to be undressed, though she began to sob pleadingly when Ulrika would have removed her husband's miniature from where it lay pressed against her bosom,—and taking it in her own hand she kissed and held it fast. One by one, the dainty articles of delicate apparel she wore were loosened and laid aside, Ulrika wondering at the embroidered linen and costly lace, the like of which was never seen in that part of Norway,—but wondering still more at the dazzling skin she thus unveiled, a skin as exquisitely soft and pure as the satiny cup of a Nile lily.
Poor Thelma sat resignedly watching her own attire taken from her, and allowing herself to be wrapped in a comfortable loose garment of white wadmel, as warm as eider-down, which Ulrika had found in a cupboard upstairs, and which, indeed, had once belonged to Thelma, she and Britta having made it together. She examined its texture now with some faint interest—then she asked plaintively—
"Are you going to bury me? You must put me to sleep with my mother—her name was Thelma, too. I think it is an unlucky name."
"Why, my dear?" asked Ulrika kindly, as she swept the rich tumbled hair from the girl's eyes, and began to braid it in one long loose plait, in order to give her greater ease.
Thelma sighed. "There is an old song that says—" She broke off. "Shall I sing it to you?" she asked with a wild look.
"No, no," said Ulrika. "Not now. By-and-by!" And she nodded her head encouragingly. "By-and-by! There'll be plenty of time for singing presently," and she laid her in bed, tucking her up warmly as though she were a very little child, and feeling strongly inclined to kiss her.
"Ah, but I should like to tell you, even if I must not sing—" and Thelma gazed up anxiously from her pillow—"only my head is so heavy, and full of strange noises—I do not know whether I can remember it."
"Don't try to remember it," and Ulrika stroked the soft cheek, with a curious yearning sensation of love tugging at her tough heartstrings. "Try to sleep—that will be better for you!" And she took from the fire a warm, nourishing drink she had prepared, and gave it to her. She was surprised at the eagerness with which the poor girl seized it.
"Lord help us, I believe she is light-headed for want of food!" she thought.