the shouts of merriment that told how greatly the thralls were enjoying, in much ale and meat, the announcement of her new dignity. The girl’s heart was bitter. This marriage she knew must take place. Her vow must be kept. Her mother’s will was the law of her life. With strange inconsistency she turned the current of her anger against Olaf, and sat in the gloom thinking such dark, unholy thoughts of her betrothed husband as not often come to a maiden on the day of her betrothal.
The Lady Aastrid bent over the couch where the maiden Freda lay, pale and perishing as the last snow that meets the sudden warmth of spring. The deep love that had entered the girl’s life was melting its frail white beauty.
“It were kind of thee, my noble lady, to come at my bidding,” the girl said, trying to raise herself up to greet her old friend.
The stately matron bent down and kissed her. “Lie still, little Freda. Thou art only to be kissed and petted, until we can coax thee back to health.”
Freda’s eyes were moist, for Aastrid’s voice was full of tenderness and sympathy. She leaned forward, and seized her friend’s hand, and fixing her deep blue eyes on the matron’s face, said softly: “Thou art so full of tenderness for me, dear Lady Aastrid, I think thou dost surely know my grief.”
“Aye! my sweet Freda; and I bitterly upbraid
