She stares and stares at the little blue stars; those happy ones who possess all hearts; those little prophets who, beautiful in themselves, are also glorified by the splendor of all the beauty which they herald, of all the beauty which is coming. And as she watches them a storm of wrath rises in her soul, rumbling like the thunder, deadening like the lightning. “By what right,” she thinks, “does Countess Dohna hold this bunch of hepaticas, picked by the shore at Ekeby?” They were all tempters: Sintram, the countess, everybody wanted to allure Gösta Berling to what was evil. But she would protect him; against all would she protect him. Even if it should cost her heart’s blood, she would do it. She thinks that she must see those flowers torn out of the countess’s hand, and thrown aside, trampled, crushed, before she leaves the little blue cabinet. She thinks that, and she begins a struggle with the little blue stars. Out in the drawing-room the old ladies lean their venerable heads against the chair-backs and suspect nothing; the men smoke their pipes in calm and quiet in the count’s room; peace is everywhere; only in the little blue cabinet rages a terrible struggle. Ah, how well they do who keep their hands from the sword, who understand how to wait quietly, to lay their hearts to rest and let God direct! The restless heart always goes astray; ill-will makes the pain worse. But Anna Stjärnhök believes that at last she has seen a finger in the sky. “Anna,” says the countess, “tell me a story!” “About what?” “Oh,” says the countess, and caresses the flowers with her white hand. “Do not you know something about love, something about loving?” “No, I know nothing of love.” “How you talk! Is there not a place here which is called Ekeby,—a place full of pensioners?” “Yes,” says Anna, “there is a place which is called Ekeby, and there are men there who suck the marrow of the land, who make us incapable of serious work, who ruin growing youth, and lead astray our geniuses. Do you want to hear of them? Do you want to hear love-stories of them?” “Yes. I like the pensioners.” So Anna Stjärnhök speaks,—speaks in short sentences, like an old hymn-book, for she is nearly choking with stormy emotions. Suppressed suffering trembles in each word, and the countess was both frightened and interested to hear her.