Then comes a wonderful thing! It is like the soft caress of a balmy wind. No, one cannot say what it is. But they who have been together these ten hours, chatting, dancing, playing, listening to music and speeches, are now prepared for it. As they drink in the song and the beauty of the night, they are filled with a blissful rapture. Ah, life is so beautiful! How precious the moments! Every breath is a joy! Now out of the throng steps Fru Hedda. In a moment she appears on the veranda, and starts the Värmland Anthem. All join in the singing, for in this way they are able to express what they feel: _Ack, Värmeland, du sköna, du härliga land!_ They seem to hear voices back in the thickets and copses, and surmise that the Mårbacka elves and fairies are dancing a contra-dance under the maple trees to the lovely melody. Hands press hands; eyes meet eyes through a mist of tears. And no one is surprised, for it is such an unspeakable happiness just to be! At the close of the song, as Fru Hedda withdraws, Herr Noreen steps forward: he, too, would interpret the spirit of the hour. “It is _this_ that is the seventeenth of August,” he says; “not the singing nor the play-acting, not the dancing nor the feasting, but that which we now feel--the sweet solemn joy which has stolen into our hearts, the love which permeates this blessed night. It was for this we longed when we came; it is for this we shall come again next year. “Why is it, dear Brother Eric Gustaf, that we must come here to you in order to feel reconciled to our fate, proud of our country, happy with ourselves and with those about us? You are no big important man. You have done no great outstanding thing. But you have within you the best of good-will and an open heart. We know that, were it in your power, you would take the whole world in your embrace. This is why you can give us each year a few hours of bliss, a little glimpse of Paradise, which we of East Ämtervik call the Seventeenth of August.” POSTSCRIPT POSTSCRIPT IT WAS the Seventeenth of August, year 1919. I had had a wreath bound, the prettiest that could be made up at Mårbacka, and with this before me in the victoria, I drove to the church. I was in holiday attire, the victoria shone with a new coat of varnish, and the horses were in their best harness. It was a perfect day. The earth lay bathed in sunshine, the air was mild, and across the pale blue sky floated a few white wisps of cloud. Not the slightest breeze blew from any direction. It was a Sunday, and I saw little children in holiday dress playing in the yards, and grown folk in their Sunday best setting off for church. No cows or sheep or chickens were seen in the road, as on weekdays, when the victoria passed through the village of Ås.