And you,"-- he hesitated, and turned with a low bow to Thelma, who had listened to his words with a gradually dawning brightness on her face--"you will, I trust, exonerate us from any intentional offense towards your father or yourself?
Our visit has proved unlucky, but--" Thelma interrupted him by laying her fair little hand on his arm with a wistful, detaining gesture, which, though seemingly familiar, was yet perfectly sweet and natural.

The light touch thrilled his blood, and sent it coursing through his veins at more than customary speed.
"Ah, then, you also will be foolish!" she said, with a naive protecting air of superior dignity.

"Do you not see my father is sorry?
Have we all kissed the cup for nothing, or was the wine wasted?
Not a drop was spilt; how then, if we are friends should we part in coldness?
Father, it is you to be ashamed,--not these gentleman, who are strangers to the Altenfjord, and know nothing of Mr.Dyceworthy, or an other person dwelling here.

And when their vessel sails away again over the wide seas to their own shores, how will you have them think of you?
As one whose heart was all kindness, and who helped to make their days pass pleasantly?
or as one who, in unreasonable anger, forgot the duties of sworn hospitality ?" The _bonde_ listened to her full, sweet, reproachful voice as a tough old lion might listen to the voice of its tamer, uncertain whether to yield or spring.

He wiped his heated brow and stared around him shamefacedly.