Britta was most impatient to see her beloved
"Froeken," and quite grudged Sir Philip the long time he remained alone
with his wife.
"He _might_ call me, if only for a moment," Britta thought plaintively.
"I do so want to look at her dear face again! But men are all alike--as
long as they've got what _they_ want, they never think of anybody else.
Dear me! I wonder how long I shall have to wait!" So she fumed and
fretted, and sat by the kitchen-fire, drinking hot tea and talking to
Ulrika--all the while straining her ears for the least sound or movement
from the adjoining room. But none came--there was the most perfect
silence. At last she could endure it no longer--and, regardless of
Ulrika's remonstrances, she stole on tip-toe to the closed door that
barred her from the sight of her heart's idol, and turning the handle
softly, opened it and looked in. Sir Philip saw her, and made a little
warning sign, though he smiled.
He was sitting by the bedside, and in his arms, nestled against his
shoulder, Thelma rested.
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