This time the Lieutenant felt quite embarrassed, as there was nothing special to offer the guests. It was just as at any other party; the young folk began to dance in the early afternoon, the _paterfamilias_ chatted over their toddy glasses, and the _maters_ sat in the drawing room nibbling fruit and confectionery. Apparently, no one was bored, for Auditor Afzelius and Dean Hammargren among the men and Hedda Hedberg and Nana Hammargren among the women knew how to enliven a company. The Lieutenant noted no mysterious glances nor any signs of preparation. Not even the usual birthday speech was forthcoming. Then as dusk was falling, folk from all the countryside came flocking to Mårbacka. The avenue leading to the house was soon black with people. The Lieutenant thought it a pity they had taken the trouble to come when there was nothing to be seen. After supper there was a little flutter of excitement and expectancy among the guests. Presently two gentlemen placed before the Lieutenant a flower-decked armchair, and bade him be seated. Instantly strong arms lifted him on high. Jan Asker struck up a march; the gentlemen offered their arms to the ladies, and all marched out into the night. But not for long did they walk in darkness. When they turned the corner of the house, the whole garden was a-light with row upon row of magic lanterns. The Lieutenant was borne along illuminated walks down to the little park. It was the first time anything of the sort had been attempted at Mårbacka. He was struck with wonder and amazement at the beauty of the scene. Could this be the ground that he and the old gardener had staked and measured only a few years back? Exclamations of delight came from all sides. How dark and mysterious the copses; how deep and endless the paths appeared under their canopy of leaves; how the flowers shimmered and shone in the light of the multi-coloured lanterns; how the masses of foliage hung down from the trees like gorgeous draperies! The procession halted in one of the glades of the park. The Lieutenant’s chair was set down; and, as his dazzled eyes blinked into a grotto of leaves and flowers, Flora, on a pedestal, encircled by little nymphs, sang in a glorious voice a song of praise to the creator of the garden. “Oh, Hedda!” the Lieutenant cried to the beautiful goddess of flowers, “I might have known that you would not forget me!” III IT IS about four in the afternoon of a seventeenth of August. The two smaller girls, Selma and Gerda, are dressing for the party. The housemaid pokes her head into the attic storeroom--the room the little girls are occupying temporarily, since their own has been placed at the convenience of visiting relatives. “Selma and Gerda, you’ll have to go down and receive,” shouts the maid. “No one else is ready, and the first carriages are coming up the drive.”