She was fast asleep. The lines of pain had
disappeared from her sweet face--a smile was on her lips--her breath
came and went with peaceful regularity,--and the delicate hue of a pale
rose flushed her cheeks. Britta stood gazing on this fair sight till her
affectionate little heart overflowed, and the ready tears dropped like
diamonds from her curly lashes.
"Oh, my dear--my dear!" she whispered in a sort of rapture when there
was a gentle movement,--and two star-like eyes opened like blue flowers
outspreading to the sun.
"Is that you, Britta?" asked a tender, wondering voice--and with a
smothered cry of ecstacy, Britta sprang to seize the outstretched hand
of her beloved Froeken, and cover it with kisses. And while Thelma
laughed with pleasure to see her, and stroked her hair. Sir Philip
described their long drive through the snow, and so warmly praised
Britta's patience, endurance, and constant cheerfulness, that his voice
trembled with its own earnestness, while Britta grew rosily red in her
deep shyness and embarrassment, vehemently protesting that she had done
nothing,--nothing at all to deserve so much commendation.
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