"Of the evening rays that are now falling through the crystal dome, of the little waves crowned with the roses of the sunset sky, and of the sweet music of the harp," she answered dreamily.
"Helga," said the old man reproachfully, "will you never shake off these delusions. You have heard from every tongue that they were fever fancies; but you want to vex my heart."
"Oh, no, no, dear father. Do not think so ill of your Helga," she said quickly, as she turned and stroked his cheeks caressingly. "I know very well that they were only dreams, but you cannot believe how deeply they are burnt into my heart. It seems like faithlessness to tear them away."
"That is a remnant of the fever," said the old man. "Ah, Helga, how happy should I be if you were yourself again!"
"And I too, dear father," said Helga, with a gentle sigh.
"I know one way of curing you, and if you love me you will try it."
"That I will, father."
"Do you promise it, my Helga?"
"Yes, dear father," she answered unhesitatingly.
"Then listen: Olaffson is good and brave, is he not?" Helga nodded. "He loves you dearly, and my most cherished wish is that you should become his wife, and that you should live under my roof, brightening my old age with the sight of your happiness."