His conception of God was
indefinable; his dreams of heaven, chaotic minglings of fairy-land with
Valhalla,--but he somehow felt that wherever Thelma's holy aspirations
turned, there the angels must be listening.
Presently she came out of the house, looking radiant as the morning
itself,--her luxuriant hair was thrown back over her shoulders, and fell
loosely about her in thick curls, simply confined by a knot of blue
ribbon. She carried a large osier basket, capacious, and gracefully
shaped.
"Now, Sigurd," she called sweetly, "I am ready! Where shall we go?"
Sigurd hastened to her side, happy and smiling.
"Across there," he said, pointing toward the direction of Bosekop.
"There is a stream under the trees that laughs to itself all day--you
know it, mistress? And the poppies are in the field as you go--and by
the banks there are the heart's-ease flowers--we cannot have too many of
_them_! Shall we go?"
"Wherever you like, dear," answered Thelma tenderly, looking down from
her stately height on the poor stunted creature at her side, who held
her dress as though he were a child clinging to her as his sole means of
guidance.
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