“I was thinking,” Mamselle Lovisa had said, dreamily, “that if I would be content with a crown of whortle---- But that’s stupid!” Then she had quickly jumped up, brushed aside the crown and the leaves, and cried out: “I know it’s all ended.” Then pacing the floor and wringing her hands the while, she had moaned: “There’s no help for it now.” “But, my dear Lovisa, it was only on account of his illness,” Fru Lagerlöf had answered. Mamselle Lovisa had continued to pace up and down, up and down, in anguish and despair. “If only I hadn’t put whortleberry in Kaisa Nilsdotter’s bridal-crown!” she had wailed. “Come, come, Lovisa, you mustn’t think that.” Just then Fru Lagerlöf had caught sight of the child standing there, wide-eyed. “Go into the other room, Selma,” she had said. “Aunt Lovisa has a sorrow, and you children must not come here and disturb her.” VII “VACKERFELDT”[1] [1] Vacker is the Swedish for pretty or handsome. THE tinkle of a silver bell is heard from the road. Colour-Sergeant Karl von Wachenfeldt comes driving.... Colour-Sergeant Karl von Wachenfeldt--was it not he who once on a time was proclaimed the handsomest man in Värmland, if not in all Sweden? Was it not he who was the idol of the Stockholm ladies the winter season of 1820, when he visited the Capital to take some sort of examination in land surveying? Was it not he who made up sleighing parties and led cotillions with a dash that put all the _beaux cavaliers_ of the _haute monde_ into the shade? Was it not he who danced so divinely and conversed so enchantingly that his fine relatives, who at first would not recognize the poor Värmland under-officer, finally sent him letters of invitation, couched in the humblest terms, because the young ladies could have no pleasure at a ball not graced by his presence? And was it not he who had such astounding luck at the gaming-table it enabled him to live that winter in Stockholm like a Lieutenant of the Guard? Was it not he, by the way, who hobnobbed with counts and barons, and outshone them in gallantry and elegance? Was it not he who at a private theatrical in the home of Admiral Wachtmeister played the leading lover and sang his couplets so passionately that the next morning he found a score of love letters in his post-box? Was not he the first to drive through the streets of Stockholm with harness and trappings adorned with chimes of silver bells? Was it not he who was known to all Stockholm, so that wherever he appeared, whether at the Royal Gardens or the Blue Gate, at the Opera or among the moving throngs in the street, it was whispered: “Look! here comes _Vackerfeldt._ Oh--oh, see! Here comes _Vackerfeldt!_”