It was not long before Thelma began to recover. The day after her
husband arrived, and Ulrika departed, she rose from her bed with
Britta's assistance, and sat by the blazing fire, wrapped in her white
gown and looking very fragile, though very lovely, Philip had been
talking to her for some time, and now he sat at her feet, holding her
hand in his, and, watching her face, on which there was an expression of
the most plaintive and serious penitence.
"I have been very wicked!" she said, with such a quaint horror of
herself that her husband laughed. "Now I look back upon it all, I think
I have behaved so very badly! because I ought never to have doubted you,
my boy--no--not for all the Lady Winsleighs in the world. And poor Mr.
Neville! he must be so unhappy! But it was that letter--that letter in
your own writing, Philip!"
"Of course!" he answered soothingly. "No wonder you thought me a
dreadful fellow! But you won't do so again, will you, Thelma? You will
believe that you are the crown and centre of my life--the joy of all the
world to me?"
"Yes, I will!" she said softly and proudly.
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