“Bah!” said the worthy pastor, making a philosophical grimace as he spread a layer of salt butter on his slice of bread, “the final word of all these fine enigmas is six feet under ground.”

“But,” said Wilfrid, sugaring his tea, “I cannot image how a young girl of seventeen can know so much; what she said was certainly a compact argument.”

“Read the account of that Italian woman,” said Monsieur Becker, “who at the age of twelve spoke forty-two languages, ancient and modern; also the history of that monk who could guess thought by smell.  I can give you a thousand such cases from Jean Wier and other writers.”

“I admit all that, dear pastor; but to my thinking, Seraphita would make a perfect wife.”

“She is all mind,” said Monsieur Becker, dubiously.

Several days went by, during which the snow in the valleys melted gradually away; the green of the forests and of the grass began to show; Norwegian Nature made ready her wedding garments for her brief bridal of a day.  During this period, when the softened air invited every one to leave the house, Seraphita remained at home in solitude.  When at last she admitted Minna the latter saw at once the ravages of inward fever; Seraphita’s voice was hollow, her skin pallid; hitherto a poet might have compared her lustre to that of diamonds,—­now it was that of a topaz.

“Have you seen her?” asked Wilfrid, who had wandered around the Swedish dwelling waiting for Minna’s return.

“Yes,” answered the young girl, weeping; “We must lose him!”

“Mademoiselle,” cried Wilfrid, endeavoring to repress the loud tones of his angry voice, “do not jest with me.  You can love Seraphita only as one young girl can love another, and not with the love which she inspires in me.  You do not know your danger if my jealousy were really aroused.  Why can I not go to her?  Is it you who stand in my way?”

“I do not know by what right you probe my heart,” said Minna, calm in appearance, but inwardly terrified.  “Yes, I love him,” she said, recovering the courage of her convictions, that she might, for once, confess the religion of her heart.  “But my jealousy, natural as it is in love, fears no one here below.  Alas!  I am jealous of a secret feeling that absorbs him.  Between him and me there is a great gulf fixed which I cannot cross.  Would that I knew who loves him best, the stars or I! which of us would sacrifice our being most eagerly for his happiness!  Why should I not be free to avow my love?  In the presence of death we may declare our feelings,—­and Seraphitus is about to die.”

“Minna, you are mistaken; the siren I so love and long for, she, whom I have seen, feeble and languid, on her couch of furs, is not a young man.”

“Monsieur,” answered Minna, distressfully, “the being whose powerful hand guided me on the Falberg, who led me to the saeter sheltered beneath the Ice-Cap, there—­” she said, pointing to the peak, “is not a feeble girl.  Ah, had you but heard him prophesying!  His poem was the music of thought.  A young girl never uttered those solemn tones of a voice which stirred my soul.”