ent. Van Mounen is flagging, but you are strong as ever. Hans and
Peter, Peter and Hans; which is foremost? We love them both. We scarcely
care which is the fleeter.

Hilda, Annie, and Gretel, seated upon the long crimson bench, can remain
quiet no longer. They spring to their feet--so different and yet one
in eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats herself. None shall know how
interested she is, none shall know how anxious, how filled with one
hope. Shut your eyes then, Hilda--hide our face rippling with joy. Peter
has beaten.

"Peter van Holp, one mile!" calls the crier.

The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes, the
same throbbing of music through the din; but something is different. A
little crowd presses close about some object, near the column. Carl has
fallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If he were less sullen
he would find more sympathy in these warm young hearts. As it is they
forget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet again.

The girls are to skate their third mile.

How resolute the little maidens look as they stand in a line! Some are
solemn with a sense of responsibility, some wear a smile half bashful,
half provoked, but one air of determination pervades them all.

This third mile may decide the race. Still, if neither Gretel nor Hilda
wins, there is yet a chance among the rest for the silver skates.

Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish the distance in
one half of the time. How they stamp to try their runners! How nervously
they examine each strap! How erect they stand at last, every eye upon
Madame van Gleck!

The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness they
spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each flashing stroke
seems longer than the last.

Now they are skimming off in the distance.

Again the eager straining of eyes, again the shouts and cheering, again
the thrill of excitement as, after a few moments, four or five, in
advance of the rest, come speeding back, nearer, nearer to the white
columns.

Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl in
yellow, but Gretel--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that ever
skated. She was but playing in the earlier races, NOW she is in earnest,
or rather, something within her has determined to win. That lithe little
form makes no effort, but it cannot stop--not until the goal is passed!

In vain the crier lifts his voice. He cannot be heard.