In spite of the brave old pagan's declaration that tears would wrong his memory, they dropped bright and fast from his daughter's eyes as she kissed again and again the words his dying hand had pencilled,—while Errington knew not which feeling gained the greater mastery over him,—grief for a good man's loss, or admiration for the strong, heroic spirit in which that good man had welcomed Death with rejoicing. He could not help comparing the bonde's departure from this life with that of Sir Francis Lennox, the man of false fashion, who had let slip his withered soul with an oath into the land of Nowhere. Presently Thelma grew calmer, and began to speak in hushed, soft tones—
"Poor Valdemar!" she said meditatively. "His heart must ache very much, Philip!"
Philip looked up inquiringly.
"You see, my father speaks of the 'crimson shroud,'" she went on. "That means that he was buried like many of the ancient Norwegian sea kings;—he was taken from his bed while dying and placed on board his own ship to breathe his last; then the ship was set on fire and sent out to sea. 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. Philip thought so,—when once more at home in England with his recovered "treasure of the golden midnight" he saw her, like a rose refreshed by rain, raise her bright head in renewed strength and beauty, with the old joyous lustre dancing in her eyes, and the smile of a perfect happiness like summer sunshine on her fair face. Lord Winsleigh thought so;—he was spending the winter in Rome with his wife and son,—and there among the shadows of the Caesars, his long, social martyrdom ended, and he regained what he had once believed lost for ever—his wife's affection. Clara gentle, wistful, with the softening shadow of a great sorrow and a great repentance in her once too-brilliant eyes, was a very different Clara to the dashing "beauty" who had figured so conspicuously in London society. She clung to her husband with an almost timid eagerness as though she dreaded losing him—and when he was not with her, she seemed to rely entirely on her son, whom she watched with a fond, almost melancholy pride, and who responded to her tenderness though proffered so late, with the full-hearted frankness of his impulsive, ardent nature. She wrote to Thelma asking her pardon, and in return received such a sweet, forgiving, generous letter as caused her to weep for an hour or more. But she felt she could never again meet the clear regard of those beautiful, earnest, truthful eyes—never again could she stand in Thelma's presence, or call her friend—that was all over. Still Love remained,—a Love, chastened and sad, with drooping wings and a somewhat doubting smile,—yet it was Love—