erable degree of prowess, wished to impart some of
the same to her companion in misfortune, and seated herself by her for
that purpose.

"I know not a soul here, and I find it so horribly wearisome," was the
unasked outpouring of soul which greeted Petrea, and which went directly
to her sympathising heart.

Petrea named every person she knew in the company to the young
unfortunate, and then, in order to escape from the weight of the
present, began to unfold great plans and undertakings for the future.
She endeavoured to induce her new acquaintance to give her her _parole
d'honneur_ that she would sometime conduct a social theatre with her,
which would assist greatly to make social life more interesting; and
further than that, that they should establish together a society of
Sisters of Charity in Sweden, and make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem;
furthermore, that they would write novels together; and that on the
following day, or more properly in the night, they would rise at
half-past two o'clock, and climb to the top of a high mountain in order
to see the sun rise; and finally, after all these, and sundry other
propositions, Petrea suggested to her new acquaintance a thee-and-thou
friendship between them! But, ah! neither Petrea's great prowess, nor
her great plans; neither the social theatre, nor the pilgrimage to
Jerusalem, least of all the thee-and-thou friendship, availed anything
towards enlivening the churlish young girl. Petrea saw plainly that an
invitation to dance would avail more than all her propositions, so,
sighing deeply because she was not a man to offer so great a pleasure,
she rose up, and left the object of her vain endeavours.

She looked round for a new subject, and her eye fell on the Countess
Solenstrale. Petrea was dazzled, and became possessed of the frenzied
desire to become acquainted with her, to be noticed by her; in short, in
some kind of way to approach the sun of the ball, fancying thereby that
a little glory would be reflected upon herself. But how was she to
manage it? If the Countess would but let fall her handkerchief, or her
fan, she might dart forward and pick it up, and then deliver it to her
with a compliment in verse. Petrea, hereupon, began to improvise to
herself; there was something, of course, about the sun in it.
Undoubtedly this would delight the Countess, and give occasion to more
acquaintance, and perhaps--but, ah! she dropped neither handkerchief nor
fan, and no opportunit