Then before she could speak or move, he let go her hands again, and turned with his usual easy courtesy to Güldmar. "Then we may expect you without fail to-morrow, sir! Good night!"
"Good night, my lad!"
And with many hearty salutations the young men took their departure, raising their hats to Thelma as they turned down the winding path to the shore. She remained standing near her father,—and, when the sound of their footsteps had died away, she drew closer still and laid her head against his breast.
"Cold, my bird?" queried the old man. "Why, thou art shivering, child!—and yet the sunshine is as warm as wine. What ails thee?"
"Nothing, father!" And she raised her eyes, glowing and brilliant as stars. "Tell me,—do you think often of my mother now!"
"Often!" And Güldmar's fine resolute face grew sad and tender. "She is never absent from my mind! I see her night and day, ay! I can feel her soft arms clinging round my neck,—why dost thou ask so strange a question, little one? Is it possible to forget what has been once loved?"
Thelma was silent for many minutes. Then she kissed her father and said "good night." He held her by the hand and looked at her with a sort of vague anxiety.
"Art thou well, my child?" he asked. "This little hand burns like fire,—and thine eyes are too bright, surely, for sleep to visit them? Art sure that nothing ails thee?"
"Sure, quite sure," answered the girl with a strange, dreamy smile. "I am quite well,—and happy!"
And she turned to enter the house.