The day passed too quickly with them all,--and
now, as they sat at dinner in the richly ornamented saloon, there was
not one among them who could contemplate without reluctance the
approaching break-up of so pleasant a party. Dessert was served, and as
Thelma toyed with the fruit on her plate and sipped her glass of
champagne, her face grew serious and absorbed,--even sad,--and she
scarcely seemed to hear the merry chatter of tongues around her, till
Errington's voice asking a question of her father roused her into swift
attention.
"Do you know any one of the name of Sigurd?" he was saying, "a poor
fellow whose wits are in heaven let us hope,--for they certainly are not
on earth."
Olaf Gueldmar's fine face softened with pity, and he replied--
"Sigurd? Have you met him then? Ah, poor boy, his is a sad fate! He has
wit enough, but it works wrongly; the brain is there, but 'tis twisted.
Yes, we know Sigurd well enough--his home is with us in default of a
better. Ay, ay! we snatched him from death--perhaps unwisely,--yet he
has a good heart, and finds pleasure in his life.
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