Gueldmar sighed as he watched him disappear.
"May the gods make us thankful for a clear brain when we have it!" he
said devoutly; and then turning to his daughter, he bade her good night,
and laid his hands on her golden head in silent but fervent blessing.
"Child," he said tremulously, "in the new joys that await thee, never
forget how thy old father loves thee!"
Then, not trusting himself to say more, he strode into the house and
betook himself to slumber. Thelma followed his example, and the old
farmhouse was soon wrapped in the peace and stillness of the strange
night--a night of glittering sunshine. Sigurd alone was wakeful,--he lay
at the foot of one of the tallest pine-trees, and stared persistently at
the radiant sky through the network of dark branches. Now and then he
smiled as though he saw some beatific vision--sometimes he plucked
fitfully at the soft long moss on which he had made his couch, and
sometimes he broke into a low, crooning song. God alone knew the broken
ideas, the dim fancies, the half born desires, that glimmered like pale
ghosts in the desert of his brain,--God alone, in the great Hereafter,
could solve the problem of his sorrows and throw light on his soul's
darkness.
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