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they are dark and soft as a purple sky,--cool and dewy and fresh;--they are the thoughts of Thelma; such thoughts! So wise and earnest, so pure and full of tender shadows!--no hand has grasped them rudely, no rough touch has spoiled their smoothness! They open full-faced to the sky, they never droop or languish; they have no secrets, save the marvel of their beauty.

Now you have come, you will have no pity,--one by one you will gather and play with her thoughts as though they were these blossoms,--your burning hand will mar their color,--they will wither and furl up and die, all of them,--and you,--what will you care?
Nothing! no man ever cares for a flower that is withered,--not even though his own hand slew it." The intense melancholy that vibrated through Sigurd's voice touched his listener profoundly.

Dimly he guessed that the stricken soul before him had formed the erroneous idea that he, Errington, had come to do some great wrong to Thelma or her belongings, and he pitied the poor creature for his foolish self-torture.
"Listen to me, Sigurd," he said, with a certain imperativeness; "I cannot promise you to go away, but I can promise that I will do no harm to you or to--to--Thelma.