Disregarding Valdemar's
assistance, she clambered sturdily over the drifted heaps of slippery
snow that blocked the deserted pathways, and made for the
house,--Valdemar following her as soon as he had safely fastened up the
sledge, which was not his own, he having in emergency borrowed it from a
neighbor. As they approached, a sound came floating to meet them--a
sound which made them pause and look at each other in surprise and
anxiety. Some one was singing,--a voice full and clear, though with a
strange, uncertain quiver in it, rippled out in wild strains of minor
melody on the snow-laden air. For one moment Ulrika listened doubtedly,
and then without more delay ran hastily forward and entered the house.
Thelma was there,--sitting at the lattice window which she had thrown
wide open to the icy blast,--she had taken off her cloak and hat, and
her hair, unbound, fell about her in a great, glittering tangle of
gold,--her hands were busy manipulating an imaginary spinning-wheel--her
eyes were brilliant as jewels, but full of pain, terror, and pathos.
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