Maurits danced many dances with the beautiful Elizabeth Westling. But that had not troubled her at all, for Maurits had time after time come up and whispered: “You see, I can’t get away from her. We are old friends. Here in the country they are so unaccustomed to have a partner who has been in society and can both dance and talk. You must lend me to the daughters of the county magnates for this evening, Anne-Marie.” But Uncle, too, gave way to Maurits. “Be host for this evening,” he said to him, and Maurits was. He was everywhere. He led the dance, he led the drinking, and he made a speech for the county and for the ladies. He was wonderful. Both Uncle and she had watched Maurits, and then their eyes had met. Uncle had smiled and nodded to her. Uncle certainly was proud of Maurits. She had felt badly that Uncle did not really do justice to his nephew. Towards morning Uncle had been loud and quarrelsome. He had wanted to join the dance, but the girls drew back from him when he came up to them and pretended to be engaged. “Dance with Anne-Marie,” Maurits had said to his uncle, and it had sounded rather patronising. She was so frightened that she quite shrank together. Uncle was offended too, turned on his heel and went into the smoking-room. Maurits came up to her and said with a hard, hard voice:— “You are ruining everything, Anne-Marie. Must you look like that when Uncle wishes to dance with you? If you could know what he said to me yesterday about you! You must do something too, Anne-Marie. Do you think it is right to leave everything to me?” “What do you wish me to do, Maurits?” “Oh, now there is nothing; now the game is spoiled. Think all I had won this evening! But it is lost now.” “I will gladly ask Uncle’s pardon, if you like, Maurits.” And she really meant it. She was honestly sorry to have hurt Uncle. “That is of course the only right thing to do; but one can ask nothing of any one as ridiculously shy as you are.” She had not answered, but had gone straight to the smoking-room, which was almost empty. Uncle had thrown himself down in an arm-chair. “Why will you not dance with me?” she had asked. Uncle Theodore’s eyes were closed. He opened them and looked long at her. It was a look full of pain that she met. It made her understand how a prisoner must feel when he thinks of his chains. It made her sorry for Uncle. It seemed as if he had needed her much more than Maurits, for Maurits needed no one. He was very well as he was. So she laid her hand on Uncle Theodore’s arm quite gently and caressingly. Instantly new life awoke in his eyes. He began to stroke her hair with his big hand. “Little mother,” he had said. Then “it” came over her while he stroked her hair. It came stealing, it came creeping, it came rushing, as when elves pass through dark woods. III