She
smiled a piteous smile as she became hazily conscious that there were
others in the room--but she went on with her song--a mournful, Norwegian
ditty,--till a sudden break in her voice caused her to put her hand to
her throat and look up perplexedly.
"That song pleases you?" she asked softly, "I am very glad! Has Sigurd
come home? He wanders so much, poor boy! Father, dear, you must tell him
how wrong it is not to love Philip. Every one loves Philip--and I--I
love him too, but he must never know that." She paused and sighed. "That
is my secret,--the only one I have!" And she drooped her fair head
forlornly.
Moved by intense pity, such as she had never felt in all her life
before, Ulrika went up and tried to draw her gently from the window.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" she said kindly. "Come away with me, and lie
down! You mustn't sit here,--let me shut the lattice,--it's quite late
at night, and too cold for you, my dear."
"Too cold?" and Thelma eyed her wonderingly. "Why, it is summer-time,
and the sun never sets! The roses are all about the walls--I gave one to
Philip yesterday--a little pale rose with a crimson heart.
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