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It was past six in the morning when he arose, and smoothing back his
tangled locks, went to Thelma's window and sat down beneath it, in mute
expectancy. He had not long to wait,--at the expiration of ten or
fifteen minutes, the little lattice was thrown wide open, and the girl's
face, fresh as a rose, framed in a shower of amber locks, smiled down
upon him.
"I am coming, Sigurd!" she cried softly and joyously. "How lovely the
morning is! Stay for me there! I shall not be long."
And she disappeared, leaving her window open. Sigurd heard her singing
little scraps of song to herself, as she moved about in the interior of
her room. He listened, as though his soul were drawn out of him by her
voice,--but presently the rich notes ceased, and there was a sudden
silence. Sigurd knew or guessed the reason of that hush,--Thelma was at
her prayers. Instinctively the poor forlorn lad folded his wasted
hands--most piteously and most imploringly he raised his bewildered eyes
to the blue and golden glory of the sky.


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