Thelma smiled--it was pleasant to be spoken to, she thought.
"Yes," she answered. "All the way to Hull."
"'Tis a cold night for a journey," continued her companion.
"Yes, indeed," answered Thelma. "It must be cold for your little baby."
And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew sad as she looked across at the sleeping infant.
"Oh, he's as warm as toast!" laughed the mother cheerily. "He gets the best of everything, he do. It's yourself that's looking cold, my dear in spite of your warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl?"
And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with much kindly earnestness of manner.
"I am quite warm, thank you," said Thelma gently, accepting the shawl, however, to please her fellow-traveller. "It is a headache I have which makes me look pale. And, I am very, very tired!"
Her voice trembled a little,--she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt strangely weak and giddy,--she seemed to be slipping away from herself and from all the comprehension of life,--she wondered vaguely who and what she was. Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream?--perhaps she had never left the Altenfjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up presently and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines as was his custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had loved her, she thought--nay, he loved her still,--he could not be dead! Oh, yes,--she must have been dreaming,--she felt certain she was lying on her own little white bed at home, asleep;--she would by-and-by open her eyes and get up and look through her little latticed window, and see the sun sparkling on the water, and the Eulalie at the anchor in the Fjord--and her father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend the afternoon at the farm-house--and Philip would come and stroll with her through the garden and down to the shore, and would talk to her in that low, caressing voice of his,--and though she loved him dearly, she must never, never let him know of it, because she was not worthy! . . . She woke from these musings with a violent start and a sick shiver running through all her frame,--and looking wildly about her, saw that she was reclining on some one's shoulder,--some one was dabbing a wet handkerchief on her forehead--her hat was off and her cloak was loosened.
"There, my dear, you're better now!" said a kindly voice in her ear. "Lor! I thought you was dead--that I did! 'Twas a bad faint indeed. And with the train jolting along like this too! It was lucky I had a flask of cold water with me. Raise your head a little--that's it! Poor thing,--you're as white as a sheet! You're not fit to travel, my dear--you're not indeed."