She was so engrossed in her guitar and her memories that she did not hear that a carriage came driving up the road and stopped at the cottage. In the carriage Countess Märta sat, and it amused her to see Mamselle Marie, who sat at the window with her guitar on her lap, and with eyes turned towards heaven sang old forgotten love-songs. At last the countess got out of the carriage and went into the cottage, where the girls were sitting at their work. She was never haughty; the wind of revolution had whistled over her and blown fresh air into her lungs. It was not her fault that she was a countess, she used to say; but she wanted at all events to live the life she liked best. She enjoyed herself just as much at peasant weddings as at court balls. She acted for her maids when there was no other spectator to be had, and she brought joy with her in all the places where she showed herself, with her beautiful little face and her overflowing love of life. She ordered a blanket of Madame Moreus and praised the girls. She looked about the rose-garden and told of her adventures on the journey. She always was having adventures. And at the last she ventured up the attic stairs, which were dreadfully steep and narrow, and sought out Mamselle Marie in her gable-room. She bought curtains of her. She could not live without having knitted curtains for all her windows, and on every table should she have Mamselle Marie’s table-covers. She borrowed her guitar and sang to her of pleasure and love. And she told her stories, so that Mamselle Marie found herself transported out into the gay, rushing world. And the countess’s laughter made such music that the frozen birds in the rose-garden began to sing when they heard it, and her face, which was hardly pretty now,—for her complexion was ruined by paint, and there was such an expression of sensuality about the mouth,—seemed to Mamselle Marie so lovely that she wondered how the little mirror could let it vanish when it had once caught it on its shining surface. When she left, she kissed Mamselle Marie and asked her to come to Borg. Mamselle Marie’s heart was as empty as the swallow’s-nest at Christmas. She was free, but she sighed for chains like a slave freed in his old age. Now there began again for Mamselle Marie a time of joy and a time of sorrow; but it did not last long,—only one short week.