Sigurd was among them at once--they were his friends,--his playmates,
his favorites,--and he gathered them quickly, yet tenderly, murmuring as
he did so, "Yes, you must all die; but death does not hurt; no! life
hurts, but not death! See! as I pluck you, you all grow wings and fly
away--away to other meadows, and bloom again." He paused, and a puzzled
look came into his eyes. He turned toward Thelma, who had seated herself
on a little knoll just above the stream, "Tell me, mistress," he said,
"do the flowers go to heaven?"
She smiled. "I think so, dear Sigurd," she said; "I hope so! I am almost
sure they do."
Sigurd nodded with an air of satisfaction.
"That is right," he observed. "It would never do to leave them behind,
you know! They would be missed, and we should have to come down again
and fetch them--" A crackling among the branches of some trees startled
him,--he looked round, and uttered a peculiar cry like the cry of a wild
animal, and exclaimed, "Spies, spies! ha! ha! secret, wicked faces that
are afraid to show themselves! Come out! Mistress, mistress! make them
come out!"
Thelma rose, surprised as his gesticulations, and came towards him; to
her utter astonishment she found herself confronted by old Lovisa
Elsland, and the Reverend Mr.
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