ill he had altogether
disappeared,--then she pressed one hand on her bosom, sighed, and
laughed a little. Glancing at the crucifix so lately restored to her,
she touched it with her lips and fastened it to a small silver chain she
wore, and then a shadow swept over her fair face that made it strangely
sad and weary. Her lips quivered pathetically; she shaded her eyes with
her curved fingers as though the sunlight hurt her,--then with faltering
steps she turned away from the warm stretch of garden, brilliant with
blossom, and entered the house. There was a sense of outrage and insult
upon her, and though in her soul she treated Mr. Dyceworthy's
observations with the contempt they deserved, his coarse allusion to Sir
Philip Errington had wounded her more than she cared to admit to
herself. Once in the quiet sitting-room, she threw herself on her knees
by her father's arm-chair, and laying her proud little golden head down
on her folded arms, she broke into a passion of silent tears.

Who shall unravel the mystery of a woman's weeping? Who shall declare
whether it is a pain or a relief to the overcharged heart? The dignity
of a crowned queen is capable of utterly dissolving and disappearing in
a shower of tears, when Love's burning finger touches the pulse and
marks its slow or rapid beatings. And Thelma wept as many of her sex
weep, without knowing why, save that all suddenly she felt herself most
lonely and forlorn like Sainte Beuve's--

"Colombe gemissante,
Qui demande par pitie
Sa moitie,
Sa moitie loin d'elle absente!"

CHAPTER XII.

"A wicked will,
A woman's will; a cankered grandame's will!"
_King John_.

"By Jove!"

And Lorimer, after uttering this unmeaning exclamation, was silent out
of sheer dismay. He stood hesitating and looking in at the door of the
Gueldmar's sitting-room, and the alarming spectacle he saw was the
queenly Thelma down on the floor in an attitude of grief,--Thelma giving
way to little smothered sobs of distress,--Thelma actually crying! He
drew a long breath and stared, utterly bewildered. It was a sight for
which he was unprepared,--he was not accustomed to women's tears. What
should he do? Should he cough gently to attract her attention, or should
he retire on tip-toe and leave her to indulge her grief as long as she
would, without making any attempt to console her? The