Philip laughed. "Talking of letters," he said suddenly, "here's one I wrote to you from Hull—it only got here today. Where it has been delayed is a mystery. You needn't read it—you know everything in it already. Then there's a letter on the shelf up there addressed in your writing—it seems never to have been opened."
He reached it down, and gave it to her. As she took it, her face grew very sad.
"It is the one I wrote to my father before I left London," she said. And her eyes filled with tears. "It came too late!"
"Thelma," said Sir Philip then, very gently and gravely, "would you like—can you bear—to read your father's last words to you? He wrote to you on his death-bed, and gave the letter to Valdemar—"
"Oh, let me see it!" she murmured half-sobbingly. "Father,—dear father! I knew he would not leave me without a word!"
Sir Philip reverently opened the folded paper which Svensen had committed to his care that morning, and together they read the bonde's farewell. It ran as follows:—
"THELMA, MY BELOVED,"
"The summons I have waited for has come at last, and the doors of Valhalla are set open to receive my soul. Wonder not that I depart with joy! Old as I am, I long for youth—the everlasting youth of which the strength and savor fails not. I have lived long enough to know the sameness of this world—though there is much therein to please the heart and eye of a man—but with that roving restlessness that was born within me, I desire to sail new seas and gaze on new lands, where a perpetual light shines that knows no fading. Grieve not for me—thou wilt remember that, unlike a Christian, I see in death the chiefest glory of life—and thou must not regret that I am eager to drain this cup of world-oblivion offered by the gods. I leave thee,—not sorrowfully,—for thou art in shelter and safety—the strong protection of thy husband's love defends thee and the safeguard of thine own innocence. My blessing upon him and thee! Serve him, Thelma mine, with full devotion and obedience—even as I have taught thee,—thus drawing from thy womanlife its best measure of sweetness,—keep the bright shield of thy truth untarnished—and live so that at the hour of thine own death-ecstasy thou mayest depart as easily as a song-bird soaring to the sun! I pass hence in happiness—if thou dost shed a tear thou wrongest my memory,—there is naught to weep for. Valdemar will give me the crimson shroud and ocean grave of my ancestors—but question him not concerning this fiery pomp of my last voyage—he is but a serf, and his soul is shaken to its very depths by sorrow. Let him be—he will have his reward hereafter. And now farewell, child of my heart—darling of mine age—clear mirror in which my later life has brightened to content! All partings are brief—we shall meet again—thou and I and Philip—and all who have loved or who love each other,—the journey heavenwards may be made by different roads, but the end—the glory—the immortality is the same! Peace be upon thee and on thy children and on thy children's children!"
"Thy father,
OLAF GÜLDMAR."