But who can help being glad when everything is arranged according
to old-fashioned faith and honor.

Uncle Theodore turns to Downie at breakfast and explains with a
strangely harsh voice that he has decided to give Maurits the
position of manager at Laxohyttan; but as the aforesaid young man,
continued Uncle, with a strained attempt to return to his usual
manner, is not much at home in practical occupations, he may not
enter upon the position until he has a wife at his side. Has she,
Miss Downie, tended her myrtle so well that she can have a crown
and wreath in September?

She feels how he is looking into her face. She knows that he wishes
to have a glance as thanks, but she does not look up.

Maurits leaps up. He embraces Uncle and makes a great deal of
noise. "But, Anne-Marie, why do you not thank Uncle? You must kiss
Uncle Theodore, Anne-Marie. Laxohyttan is the most beautiful place
in the world. Come now, Anne-Marie!"

She raises her eyes. There are tears in them, and through the tears
a glance full of despair and reproach falls on Maurits. She cannot
understand; he insists upon going with an uncovered light into the
powder magazine. Then she turns to Uncle Theodore; but not with the
shy, childish manner she had before, but with a certain nobleness,
with something of the martyr, of an imprisoned queen.

"You are much too good to us," she says only.

Thus is everything accomplished according to the demands of honor.
There is not another word to be said in the matter. He has not
robbed her of her faith in him whom she loves. She has not betrayed
herself. She is faithful to him who has made her his betrothed,
although she is only a poor girl from a little bakery in a back
street.

And now the chaise can be brought up, the trunks be corded, the
luncheon-basket filled.

Uncle Theodore leaves the table. He goes and places himself by a
window. Ever since she has turned to him with that tearful glance
he is out of his senses. He is quite mad, ready to throw himself
upon her, press her to his breast and call to Maurits to come and
tear her away if he can.

His hands are in his pockets. Through the clenched fists cramp-like
convulsions are passing.

Can he allow her to put on her hat, to say goodbye to the old lady?

There he stands again on the cliff of Naxos and wishes to steal the
beloved for himself. Nor, not steal! Why not honorably and manfully
step forward and say: "I am your rival, Maurits. Your betrot