And now that they had reached it in safety,
Britta's strength gave way. Valdemar Svensen had hastily blurted out the
news of the _bonde's_ death even while she and Sir Philip were alighting
from their sledge--and in the same breath had told them of Thelma's
dangerous illness. What wonder, then, that Britta sobbed hysterically,
and refused to be comforted,--what wonder that she turned upon Ulrika as
that personage approached, in a burst of unreasonable anger.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she cried, "to think that the Froeken should be so
ill--almost dying! and have nobody but _you_ to attend to her!"
This, with a vindictive toss of the brown curls. Ulrika winced at her
words--she was hurt, but she answered gently--
"I have done my best," she said with a sort of grave pathos, "I have
been with her night and day--had she been a daughter of my own blood, I
know not how I could have served her with more tenderness. And, surely,
it has been a sore and anxious time with me also--for I, too, have
learned to love her!"
Her set mouth quivered,--and Britta, seeing her emotion, was ashamed of
her first hasty speech.
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