Thelma, resting among the roses, looked across at him with serious, questioning eyes--eyes that seemed to be asking his intentions towards both her and her father.
Güldmar accepted the invitation at once, and, the hour for their visit next day being fixed and agreed upon, the young men began to take their leave. As Errington clasped Thelma's hand in farewell, he made a bold venture. He touched a rose that hung just above her head almost dropping on her hair.
"May I have it?" he asked in a low tone.
Their eyes met. The girl flushed deeply, and then grew pale. She broke off the flower and gave it to him,--then turned to Lorimer to say good-bye. They left her then, standing under the porch, shading her brow with one hand from the glittering sunlight, as she watched them descending the winding path to the shore, accompanied by her lather, who hospitably insisted on seeing them into their boat. They looked back once or twice, always to see the slender, tall white figure standing there like an angel resting in a bower of roses, with the sunshine flashing on a golden crown of hair. At the last in the pathway Philip raised his hat and waved it, but whether she condescended to wave her hand in answer he could not see.
Left alone, she sighed, and went slowly into the house to resume her spinning. Hearing the whirr of the wheel, the servant Britta entered.
"You are not going in the boat, Fröken?" she asked in a tone of mingled deference and affection.
Thelma looked up, smiled faintly, and shook her head in the negative.
"It is late, Britta, and I am tired."
And the deep blue eyes had an intense dreamy light within them as they wandered from the wheel to the wide-open window, and rested on the majestic darkness of the overshadowing, solemn pines.