"A fellow with such queer notions might do some serious harm without meaning it.

I'll keep an eye on him!" And once or twice during that same evening, he felt inclined to speak to Errington on the subject, but no suitable opportunity presented itself--and after a while, with his habitual indolence, he partly forgot the circumstance.
On the following Sunday afternoon Thelma sat alone under the wide blossom-covered porch, reading.

Her father and Sigurd,--accompanied by Errington and his friends,--had all gone for a mountain ramble, promising to return for supper, a substantial meal which Britta was already busy preparing.

The afternoon was very warm,--one of those long, lazy stretches of heat and brilliancy in which Nature seems to have lain down to rest like a child tired of play, sleeping in the sunshine with drooping flowers in her hands.

The very ripple of the stream seemed hushed, and Thelma, though her eyes were bent seriously on the book she held, sighed once or twice heavily as though she were tired.