noon
The snow-fall had ceased , -- the wind had sunk -- there was a frost-bound , monotonous calm . The picturesque dwelling of the _ bonde _ was white in every part , and fringed with long icicles , -- icicles drooped from its sheltering porch and gabled windows -- the deserted dove-cote on the roof was a miniature ice-palace , curiously festooned with thin threads and crested pinnacles of frozen snow . Within the house there was silence , -- the silence of approaching desolation . In the room where Thelma used to sit and spin , a blazing fire of pine sparkled on the walls , casting ruddy outward flashes through the frost-covered lattice-windows , -- and here , towards the obscure noon , Olaf Güldmar awoke from his long trance of insensibility . He found himself at home , stretched on his own bed , and looked about him vacantly . In the earnest and watchful countenance that bent above his pillow , he slowly recognized his friend , companion , and servant , Valdemar Svensen , and though returning consciousness brought with it throbs of agonizing pain , he strove to smile , and feebly stretched out his hand . Valdemar grasped it -- kissed it -- and in spite of his efforts to restrain his emotion , a sigh , that was almost a groan , escaped him .