I always knew he wished it so. Valdemar must have done it
all--for I,--I saw the last glimpse of the flames on the Fjord the night
I came home! Oh, Philip!" and her beautiful eyes rested tenderly upon
him, "it was all so dreadful--so desolate! I wanted--I prayed to die
also! The world was so empty--it seemed as if there was nothing left!"
Philip, still sitting at her feet, encircled her with both arms, and
drew her down to him.
"My Thelma!" he whispered, "there _is_ nothing left--nothing at all
worth living for,--save Love!"
"Ah! but that," she answered softly, "is everything!"
* * * * * *
Is it so, indeed? Is Love alone worth living for--worth dying for? Is it
the only satisfying good we can grasp at among the shifting shadows of
our brief existence? In its various phases and different workings, is
it, after all, the brightest radiance known in the struggling darkness
of our lives?
Sigurd had thought so,--he had died to prove it.
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