Fate led you to _her_ grave--a grave that no strange feet have ever passed, save yours--and so I know you are the man for whom her spirit has waited,--she has brought you hither.

How foolish to think she sleeps under the stone, when she is always awake and busy,--always at work opposing me! Yes, though I pray her to lie still, she will not!" His voice grew wild again, and Philip asked quietly-- "Of whom are you speaking, Sigurd ?" His steady tone seemed to have some compelling influence on the confused mind of the half-witted creature, who answered readily and at once-- "Of whom should I speak but Thelma?
Thelma, the beautiful rose of the northern forest--Thelma--" He broke off abruptly with a long shuddering sigh, and rocking himself drearily to and fro, gazed wistfully out to the sea.

Errington hazarded a guess as to the purpose of that coffin hidden in the shell cavern.
"Do you mean Thelma living?
.

.

.