“I was so sorry for her!” said Louise; “and by chance it happened that I had a great many things to arrange after you were all in bed. Everything was so still in the house, it seemed to me as if I could hear Sidsel sigh; certainly it was only my own imagination, but I could do no other than pity her! she was so unfortunate! Thus I let her escape!”
“Are you gone mad?” inquired Wilhelm; “what a history is this? Did you go in the night up to the top of the house? That is an unseasonable compassion!”
“It was beautiful!” said Otto, bending himself involuntarily, and kissing Louise’s hand.
“Yes, that is water to his mill!” exclaimed Wilhelm. “I think nothing of such things!”
“We will not talk about it to anyone,” said the mother. “The steward shall not proceed any further in it. We have recovered the old silver tankard, and the losing that was my greatest trouble. We will thank God that we are well rid of her! Poor thing! she will come to an unfortunate end!”
“Are you still unwell, Mr. Thostrup?” said Sophie, and looked at him.
“I am a little feverish,” replied he. “I will take a very long walk, and then I shall be better.”
“You should take a few drops,” said the lady.
“O, he will come to himself yet!” said Wilhelm; “he must take exercise! His is not a dangerous illness.”
Otto went into the wood. It was to him a temple of God; his heart poured forth a hymn of thanksgiving. Louise had been his good angel. He felt of a truth that she would never betray his secret. His thoughts clung to her with confidence. “Are you still unwell?” Sophie had said. The tones of her voice alone had been like the fragrance of healing herbs; in her eye he had felt sympathy and—love. “O Sophie!” sighed he. Both sisters were so dear to him.