, had not been
asked for the first dance, but had stood against the wall in her tight,
high-heeled shoes, nervously fingering a lace handkerchief. She was soon
out of breath, so Nils led her, pleased and panting, to her seat,
and went over to the piano, from which Clara had been watching his
gallantry. "Ask Olena Yenson," she whispered. "She waltzes beautifully."

Olena, too, was rather inconveniently plump, handsome in a smooth, heavy
way, with a fine colour and good-natured, sleepy eyes. She was redolent
of violet sachet powder, and had warm, soft, white hands, but she danced
divinely, moving as smoothly as the tide coming in. "There, that's
something like," Nils said as he released her. "You'll give me the next
waltz, won't you? Now I must go and dance with my little cousin."

Hilda was greatly excited when Nils went up to her stall and held out
his arm. Her little eyes sparkled, but she declared that she could not
leave her lemonade. Old Mrs. Ericson, who happened along at this moment,
said she would attend to that, and Hilda came out, as pink as her pink
dress. The dance was a schottische, and in a moment her yellow braids
were fairly standing on end. "Bravo!" Nils cried encouragingly. "Where
did you learn to dance so nicely?"

"My Cousin Clara taught me," the little girl panted.

Nils found Eric sitting with a group of boys who were too awkward or too
shy to dance, and told him that he must dance the next waltz with Hilda.

The boy screwed up his shoulders. "Aw, Nils, I can't dance. My feet are
too big; I look silly."

"Don't be thinking about yourself. It doesn't matter how boys look."

Nils had never spoken to him so sharply before, and Eric made haste to
scramble out of his corner and brush the straw from his coat.

Clara nodded approvingly. "Good for you, Nils. I've been trying to
get hold of him. They dance very nicely together; I sometimes play for
them."

"I'm obliged to you for teaching him. There's no reason why he should
grow up to be a lout."

"He'll never be that. He's more like you than any of them. Only he
hasn't your courage." From her slanting eyes Clara shot forth one of
those keen glances, admiring and at the same time challenging, which she
seldom bestowed on any one, and which seemed to say, "Yes, I admire you,
but I am your equal."

Clara was proving a much better host than Olaf, who, once the supper was
over, seemed to feel no interest in anything but the lanterns. He had
brought