"Perhaps she will be better when she is married," said the father to himself, as he looked anxiously at Helga. She was leaning against the grassy ditch that enclosed the farm, and gazing into the glow of the evening sky. He stepped softly up to her. "What is my Helga thinking of?" he asked tenderly. "Of the evening rays that are now falling through the crystal dome, of the little waves crowned with the roses of the sunset sky, and of the sweet music of the harp," she answered dreamily. "Helga," said the old man reproachfully, "will you never shake off these delusions. You have heard from every tongue that they were fever fancies; but you want to vex my heart." "Oh, no, no, dear father. Do not think so ill of your Helga," she said quickly, as she turned and stroked his cheeks caressingly. "I know very well that they were only dreams, but you cannot believe how deeply they are burnt into my heart. It seems like faithlessness to tear them away." "That is a remnant of the fever," said the old man. "Ah, Helga, how happy should I be if you were yourself again!" "And I too, dear father," said Helga, with a gentle sigh. "I know one way of curing you, and if you love me you will try it." "That I will, father." "Do you promise it, my Helga?" "Yes, dear father," she answered unhesitatingly. "Then listen: Olaffson is good and brave, is he not?" Helga nodded. "He loves you dearly, and my most cherished wish is that you should become his wife, and that you should live under my roof, brightening my old age with the sight of your happiness." Helga grew deadly pale. "Ah, father, dear father, I cannot." "Why not, Helga? Have you anything against him? Is he not young, handsome, and strong? Is he not brave and good? Could you find me a better son, or yourself a more loving husband? Tell me, are you influenced in this matter by those foolish dreams, the wild images of your brain? Tell the truth, Helga." She looked at him in trembling entreaty. "Ah, my father, forgive me." "If you want to make your old father happy, say Yes, and become Olaffson's wife; if you wish to poison my last days with sorrow, then leave my wish unfulfilled." With these words the old man turned away in anxious grief, and moved towards the house. Helga hastened after him. "Do not be angry, my father," she begged; "I will fulfil your wish, come what will." "I thank you, my good child; but what do you fear? What could come of it but a father's blessing, with its fruits of happiness and peace?" So Helga became Olaffson's wife. Did the Flower of Iceland now regain its freshness and bloom? Alas! no. In spite of her father's tenderness and her husband's love, she still remained sorrowful and pale; deeper, if anything, was the shadow that oppressed her soul. To longing was now added remorse, the bitterest feeling that can disturb a human heart, for it is the only one for which time has no balm.