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There was no reserve or
coldness in the party, and the hum of their merry voices echoed up to
the cross-rafters of the stout wooden ceiling and through the open door
and window, from whence a patch of the gorgeous afternoon sky could be
seen, glimmering redly, like a distant lake of fire. They were in the
full enjoyment of their repast, and the old farmer's rollicking "Ha, ha,
ha!" in response to a joke of Lorimer's, had just echoed jovially
through the room, when a strong, harsh voice called aloud--"Olaf
Gueldmar!"
There was a sudden silence. Each one looked at the other in surprise.
Again the voice called--"Olaf Gueldmar!"
"Well!" roared the _bonde_ testily, turning sharply round in his chair,
"who calls me?"
"I do!" and the tall, emaciated figure of a woman advanced and stood on
the threshold, without actually entering the room. She dropped the black
shawl that enveloped her, and, in so doing, disordered her hair, which
fell in white, straggling locks about her withered features, and her
dark eyes gleamed maliciously as she fixed them on the assembled party.


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