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"Take me in, Britta dear--pretty
Britta!" he said coaxingly. "Sigurd is hungry! Britta, sweet little
Britta,--come and talk to me and sing! Good-bye, fat man!" he added
suddenly, turning round once more on Dyceworthy. "You will never
overtake the big ship that has gone away with Thelma over the water.
Thelma will come back,--yes! . . . but one day she will go never to come
back." He dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. "Last night I saw a
little spirit come out of a rose,--he carried a tiny golden hammer and
nail, and a ball of cord like a rolled-up sunbeam. He flew away so
quickly I could not follow him; but I know where he went! He fastened
the nail in the heart of Thelma, deeply, so that the little drops of
blood flowed,--but she felt no pain; and then he tied the golden cord to
the nail and left her, carrying the other end of the string with him--to
whom? Some other heart must be pierced! Whose heart?" Sigurd looked
infinitely cunning as well as melancholy, and sighed deeply.


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