is light waistcoat and his stock. I also see
his handsome, clean-shaven face with its small, small whiskers, his
high stiff collar, and the graceful dignity of his slightest
movement. He is sitting on the right in the chaise and is just
taking up the reins, and beside him is sitting that little woman.
God bless her! I see her even more distinctly. Like a picture I
have before me that narrow, little face, and the hat that frames
it, tied under the chin, the dark-brown, smoothly combed hair, and
the big shawl with the embroidered silk flowers. The chaise in
which they are driving has a seat with a green, fluted back, and of
course the innkeeper's horse which is to take them the first six
miles is a little fat sorrel.

I lost my heart to her from the very first moment. There is no
sense in it, for she is the most insignificant little person; but I
was won by seeing all the eyes that followed her when she drove
away. In the first place, I see how her father and mother look
after her from where they stand in the doorway of the baker's shop.
Her father even has tears in his eyes, but her mother has no time
to weep yet. She must use her eyes to look at her daughter as long
as the latter can wave and nod to her. And then of course there are
merry greetings from the children in the little street and roguish
glances from all the pretty, little factory girls from behind
windows and doors, and dreamy looks from some of the young salesmen
and apprentices. But all nod good-will and god-speed to her. And
then there are anxious glances from some poor, old women, who come
out and curtsey and take off their spectacles to be able to see her
as she drives by in state. But I cannot see a single unfriendly
look following her; no, not in the whole length of the street.

When she is out of sight, her father wipes the tears from his eyes
with his sleeve.

"Don't be sad now, mother!" he says. "You will see that she will
come out all right. Downie will manage, mother, even if she is so
little."

"Father," says the mother with great emphasis, "you speak in a
strange way. Why should Anne-Marie not be able to manage it? She is
as good as anybody."

"Of course she is, mother; but still, mother, still--I would not
be in her shoes, nor go where she is going. No, that I would not!"

"Well, and what good would that do, you ugly old baker!" says
mother, who sees that he is so uneasy about the girl that he needs
to be cheered with a little joke. A