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"Ah, Petrea, and you?" asked Sara.

"Ah," said Petrea, "I'll just furbish up my gauze dress, and keep a
little money for some ribbon, and then all is done; and as for the rest,
it does not matter how I look. Be only contented, Sara, and do as I bid
you."

"But ought I? Can I?" asked Sara. "Ah, no, Petrea, I could not do it!
Your little all! And then it would not be sufficient."

"Ah, yes," said Petrea, "make it sufficient. We can go to Louise's
shops, and one gets everything so cheap there. I shall never be happy
again if you do not do as I pray you. See now, you are my good, dear
Sara! Thank you, thank you! Ah, now am I so light at heart! Now I need
not trouble myself about the blessed toilet. And that is a great gain
for me!"

The bird that sits on the swinging bough is not lighter of mood than
Petrea was as she went out with Sara, who was far less cheerful, but who
still had never been more friendly towards Petrea.

It went thus with Petrea's purchase of ribbon:--In passing a
gingerbread-booth she saw a little chimney-sweeper, who was casting the
most loving glances on some purple-red apples, and Petrea, with the
money in her hand, could not resist the desire of making him a present
of them, and felt more than rewarded as she saw the boy's white teeth
shining forth from their black neighbourhood, first in smiles at her,
and then as they attacked the juicy fruit. Her own mouth watered at it,
and as she now cast her eyes round the booth, and saw such beautiful
bergamotte-pears--the favourite fruit of her mother--and such
magnificent oranges, that would please Leonore so much!--the result was,
that Petrea's reticule was filled with fruit, and the ribbon--for that
there was not now money enough.

"But," consoled herself Petrea, "Louise has such a deal of old
ribbon--she can very well lend me some." Petrea thought like all bad
managers.

When Sara and Petrea returned from the shopping expedition, Louise saw
directly that the things which Sara had bought must far have exceeded
her means; and besides this, Louise justly thought that they were
unseemly for a young girl of her station. She saw without saying one
word the white silk; the blue gauze for the tunic; the beautiful white
and yellow asters for the hair, and the other ornaments which Sara, not
without vanity, displayed.

"And what have you bought, Petrea?" now asked Louise; "let us see your
bargains."

Petrea replied, with a blush, that she--had bought nothing yet.

Not long afterwards Petrea came to Louise, and besought her, with a
certain bashfulness, to lend her some ribbon.

"Good Petrea," said Louise, displeased, "I want my ribbons myself, and
you have had money just as well as I or any of the others, to buy what
you may want."

Petrea was silent, and tears were in her eyes.

"I did not think, Louise," said Sara, hotly, "that you would have been
so covetous as to refuse Petrea some old ribbons which you are certain
not to want yourself."

"And I, Sara," returned Louise in the same tone, "I could not have
believed that you would have so abused Petrea's good-nature and weakness
towards you as to take from her her little share, just to indulge your
own vanity! It appears to me especially blameworthy, as it has led to
expenses which far exceed the means of our parents."

"Sara did not desire anything from me," said Petrea, with warmth; "I
insisted upon it; I compelled her."

"And above all, Sara," continued Louise, with stern seriousness, "I must
tell you that the dress you have chosen appears to me neither modest nor
becoming. I am quite persuaded that Schwartz has induced you to deviate
from our first project; and I must tell you, dear Sara, that were I in
your place I would not allow such a person to have such an influence
with me; nor is this the only instance in which your behaviour to him
has not appeared to me what it ought to be, not such as becomes the
dignity of a woman, or what I should wish in a sister _of mine_. I am
very sorry to say this."

"Oh, you are quite too good!" returned Sara, throwing back her head, and
with a scornful smile; "but don't trouble yourself, Louise, for I assure
you that it gives me very little concern what pleases you or what does
not."

"So much the worse for you, Sara," said Louise, "that you concern
yourself so little for those who are your true friends. I, besides, am
not the only one whom your behaviour to Schwartz displeases. Eva----"

"Yes, Sara," interrupted Eva, blushing, "I think too that you do not
conduct yourself towards him as is becoming, for----"

"Sisters," said Sara, with warmth and pride, "you cannot judge of what
is seemly for me. You have no right to censure my conduct, and I will
not endure----"

"I think, too," said Petrea, warmly, "that if our mother has said
nothing, nobody else has any right----"

"Silence, dear Petrea," said Louise; "you are silly and blind to----"

At this moment of disunion and confusion, when all the sisters were
beginning to speak at once, and that with the tongues of indignation and
reproof, a deep and mournful sigh was suddenly heard, which silenced
all, and turned every eye to the door of the little boudoir. The mother
stood there, with her hands clasped against her breast, pale, and with
an expression of pain on her countenance, which sent a quick pang of
conscience through the hearts of the daughters. As all remained silent,
she came softly forward, and said, with a voice of emotion:

"Why? ah, why, my dear girls, is all this? No! Now, no explanations;
there is error and blame on one side, perhaps also on more. But why this
bitterness, this incautious outbreak of injurious words? Ah, you know
not what you are doing! You know not what a hell sisters can make for
one another, if they cherish such tempers. You know not how bitterness
and harshness may grow among you to a dreadful habit; how you may become
tormenting spirits to each other, and embitter each others' lives. And
it could be so different! Sisters might be like good angels the one to
the other, and make the paternal home like a heaven upon earth! I have
seen both the one and the other in families: a greater contrast is not
to be found on earth. Ah, think, think only that every day, nay, every
hour, you are working to shape the future. Reflect that you may gladden
and beautify your lives, or embitter them, according as you now act. My
dear girls, bethink you that it is in your power to make your parents,
your family, yourselves, either very happy or very unhappy!"

The daughters were silent, and were penetrated by the deep emotion which
expressed itself in the words of their mother, in her pale countenance,
and in her tearful looks. They felt strongly the truth of all that she
had said. With a torrent of tears, Petrea ran out of the room; Sara
followed her silently; Eva threw herself caressingly on her mother's
neck; but Louise said:

"I have only spoken the truth to Sara. It is not my fault if it be
unpleasant for her to hear it."

"Ah, Louise!" returned her mother, "this is constantly said in the
world, and yet so much division and hatred prevail between those who say
it. It is the blind belief in our own faultlessness, it is the hard and
assuming spirit of correction, which excite the temper, and make the
truth unproductive of good. Why should we present truth in a disfiguring
dress, when she is in herself so pure and beautiful? I know, my dear
girl, that you only wish to do that which is right and good, and whoever
aims rightly at that object will not fail of the means also."

"Must I then dissimulate?" asked Louise. "Must I conceal my thoughts,
and be silent respecting that which I think wrong? That may indeed be
prudent, but it certainly is not Christian."

"Become Christian in temper, my child," said the mother, "and you will
easily discover the means of doing what is right in a proper and
effectual manner. You will learn to speak the truth without wounding; a
truly pure, truly affectionate spirit wounds no one, not even in
trifles. For that reason, one need not to be silent when one should
speak, but----"

"'_C'est le ton qui fait la chanson!_' Is it not so? he, he, he!"
interposed the shrill voice of Mrs. Gunilla, who had come in unobserved,
and who thus put an end to the discourse. Soon afterwards the Assessor
made his appearance, and they two fell into conversation, though not, as
commonly, into strife with each other. Mrs. Gunilla lamented to him
respecting Pyrrhus; she was quite in trouble about the little animal,
which had now for some time had a pain in the foot, which it always lay
and licked, and which, spite of that and of other means, got rather
worse than better. She did not know what she was to do with the little
favourite. The Assessor besought her, in the kindest manner, to allow
him to undertake his treatment. He said he had always been much more
successful in curing dogs than men, and that dogs were far more
agreeable, and far nicer patients than their masters. Mrs. Gunilla
thanked him much, and was heartily glad of his offer, and the following
morning, she said, Pyrrhus should be conveyed to him.

The family assembled themselves for tea, and the quick eyes of Mrs.
Gunilla soon discovered that all was not quite as it should be.

"Listen, now," said she, "my little Elise. I know that there will be
festivities, and balls, and banquets, given there at----_chose_! what do
they call it? and of course the young people here should all be at them
and figure a little. If there be any little embarrassments about the
toilet in which I can help, tell me candidly. Good heavens! one can
imagine that easily. Young girls!--a rosette is wanted here, and a
rosette is wanted there, and one thing and another--heart's-dearest! it
is so natural. I know it all so well. Now tell me----"

Elise thanked her cordially, but must decline this offer; her daughters,
she said, must learn betimes to moderate their desires to their means.

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Gunilla, "but I must tell you, my dear friend,
there is no rule without its exception, and if any trifles are wanted,
so--think on me."

Mrs. Gunilla was to-day in such a happy humour; she looked like somebody
who was determined to make some fellow-creature happy. The Assessor
could not get into dispute with her. She rejoiced herself in the
country, to which she should soon remove; in the spring which was at
hand, and in the greenness which was approaching. The Assessor rejoiced
himself not at all. "What had one to rejoice about in such a hateful
spring? It was quite impossible to live in such a climate, and it must
be the will of our Lord God that man should not live, or he would not
have sent such springs. How could people plant potatoes in ice? and how
otherwise could they be planted at all this year? And if people could
get no potatoes, they must die of hunger, which was then perhaps the
best part of the history of life."

On her side, Mrs. Gunilla bethought herself that she would willingly
live. "Our Lord God," she said, "would take care that people had
potatoes!" and then she looked with an expression of cordial sympathy on
the troubled and distressed countenances of the young girls.

"When Eva, dear, is as old as I," said she, patting her gently on her
white neck, "she will know nothing more of all that which so distresses
her now."

"Ah! to be sixty years old!" exclaimed Eva, smiling, though with a tear
in her eye.

"You'll get well on to sixty--well on; he, he, he, he!" said Mrs.
Gunilla, consolingly. "Heart's-dearest! it goes before one thinks of it!
But only be merry and cheerful. Amuse yourselves at----_chose_! what do
you call it? and then come and tell me all about it. Do that nicely, and
then I shall get my share of the fun though I am not there. That comes
of the so-to-be envied sixty years, Eva, dear! he, he, he, he!"

The sun set bright and glorious. Mrs. Gunilla went to the window, and
sent a little greeting towards the sun, whose beams, glancing through
the trees of the opposite churchyard, seemed to salute her in return.

"It looks as if one should have a fine day to-morrow," said Mrs. Gunilla
to herself, gently, and looking very happy.

People place youth and age opposite to each other, as the light and
shade in the day of life. But has not every day, every age, its own
youth--its own new attractive life, if one only sets about rightly to
enjoy them? Yes, the aged man, who has collected together pure
recollections for his evening companions, is many degrees happier than
the youth who, with a restless heart, stands only at the beginning of
his journey. No passions disturb the coffee-cup of the other--no
restless endeavours disturb the cheerful gossip of the evening twilight;
all the little comforts of life are then so thoroughly enjoyed; and we
can then, with more confidence, cast all our cares and anxieties on God.
We have then proved Him.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Crown-banco, equal to one shilling and sixpence English money.

[9] A shilling Swedish is equal to about one farthing English.

CHAPTER VII.

DISENTANGLING.

"There are certainly too many bitter almonds in this almond-mass;
nothing tastes good to me this afternoon," said Elise, who set down a
glass of almond-milk, and sighed--but not for the almond-milk.

"Be pleased with us, dear mother," whispered Eva, tenderly; "we are all
friends again!"

The mother saw it in their beautiful beaming eyes; she read it in
Louise's quiet glance as she turned round from the table, where she was
helping Sara with her tunic, and looked at her mother. Elise nodded
joyfully both to her and Eva, and drank to them the glass of
almond-milk, which now appeared to have become suddenly sweet, so
pleased did she look as she again set down the glass.

"Mamma, dear," said Gabriele, "we must certainly do something towards
poor Petrea's toilet, otherwise she will not be presentable."

But Louise took Petrea's gauze-dress secretly in hand, and sate up over
it till midnight, and adorned it so with her own ribbons and lace that
it was more presentable than it had ever been before.

Petrea kissed her skilful hands for all that they had done. Eva--yet we
will, for the present, keep silent on her arrangements.

But dost thou know, oh, reader!--yes, certainly thou dost!--the zephyrs
which call forth spring in the land of the soul--which call forth
flowers, and make the air pure and delicious? Certainly thou knowest
them--the little easy, quiet, unpretending, almost invisible, and yet
powerful--in one word, human kindnesses.

Since these have taken up their abode in the Franks' family we see
nothing that can prevent a general joyful party of pleasure. But
yes!--it is true--

PETREA'S NOSE!

This was, as we have often remarked, large and somewhat clumsy. Petrea
had great desire to unform it, particularly for the approaching
festivities.

"What _have_ you done to your nose? What is amiss with your nose?" were
the questions which assailed Petrea on all sides, as she came down to
breakfast on the morning of the journey.

Half laughing and half crying, Petrea related how she had made use of
some innocent machinery during the night, by which she had hoped
somewhat to alter the form of this offending feature, the consequence of
which had unfortunately been the fixing a fiery red saddle across it,
and a considerable swelling beside.

"Don't cry, my dear girl," said her mother, bathing it with
oatmeal-water, "it will only inflame your nose the more."

"Ah," burst forth poor Petrea, "anybody is really unfortunate who has
such a nose as mine! What in the world can they do with it? They must go
into a convent."

"It is very much better," said the mother, "to do as one of my friends
did, who had a very large nose, much larger than yours, Petrea."

"Ah, what did she do?" asked Petrea, eagerly.

"She made herself so beloved, that her nose was beloved too," said her
mother. "Her friends declared that they saw nothing so gladly as her
nose as it came in at the door, and that without it she would have been
nothing."

Petrea laughed, and looked quite cheerful. "Ah," said she, "if my nose
can but be beloved, I shall be quite reconciled to it."

"You must endeavour to grow above it!" said the good, prudent mother,
jestingly, but significantly.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAY OF THE JOURNEY.

On the morning of the important day all was in lively motion. The
Assessor sent Eva a large bouquet of most remarkably beautiful natural
flowers, which she immediately divided among her sisters. The Judge
himself, in a frenzy of activity, packed the things of his wife and
daughters, and protested that nobody could do it better than he, and
that nobody could make so many things go into one box as he could. The
last was willingly conceded to him, but a little demur arose as to the
excellency of the packing. The ladies asserted that he rumpled their
dresses; the Judge asserted that there was no danger on that account,
that everything would be found remarkably smooth, and stood zealous and
warm in his shirt-sleeves beside the travelling-case, grumbling a little
at every fresh dress that was handed to him, and then exclaiming
immediately afterwards, "Have you more yet, girls? I have more room. Do
give me more! See now! that? and that? and that? and----now, in the name
of all weathers, is there no end of your articles? Give them here, my
girls! Let that alone, child! I shall soon lay it straight! What?
rumple them, shall I? Well, they can be unrumpled again, that's all! Are
there no smoothing-irons in the world? What? so, so, my girls! Have you
any more? I can yet put something more in."

They were to set off immediately after dinner, in order to be at
Axelholm, which lay about two miles[10] from the city, ready for the ball
in the evening. By dinner-time all boxes were packed, and all tempers
cleared, more especially that of the Judge, who was so contented with
his morning's work that he almost imparted his delight to those who at
first were not altogether satisfied with it.

Petrea ate nothing but a pancake, with a little snow milk to it, in
order that she might dance all the lighter.

"Above all things, my friends," prayed the Judge, "be precise, and be
ready at half-past three; the carriages come then to the door, do not
let me have to wait for you."

Precisely at half-past three the Judge went to the doors of his wife and
daughters.

"Mamma! girls! it is time to go!" said he. "The clock has struck
half-past three! The carriages are here!"

"Directly, directly!" was answered from all sides. The Judge waited; he
knew from experience what this "directly" meant.

In the fever of his punctuality his blood began to boil, and he walked
up and down the hall with great steps, talking with himself: "It is
shocking, though," argued he, "that they never are ready! but I won't be
angry! Even if they make me angry, I will not spoil their pleasure. But
patience is necessary, more than Job had!"

Whilst he was thus moralising with himself, he heard the voice of his
wife saying, with decision, in the library, "Come now, dear girls! In
heaven's name, don't keep the father waiting! I know, indeed, how it
annoys him----!"

"But he said nothing the day before yesterday," Petrea's voice was heard
to return, "though he had then to wait for us. (I can't think what I
have done with my gloves!)"

"And precisely on that account he shall not wait a moment longer for
us," said the mother; "and never again, if I can help it; so, if you are
not ready girls, I shall run away without you!"

The mother ran, and all the daughters ran merrily after her.

The father remarked with pleasure, that love has a far more effectual
power than fear, and all were soon seated in the carriage.

We will allow them to roll away, and will now pay a little visit to

LEONORE'S CHAMBER.

Leonore sate solitary. She supported her sick head on her hand. She had
impelled herself to answer kindly the leave-taking kiss of her mother
and sisters; she had seen how they sought to repress their joy before
her; and she had particularly remarked a sort of half-concealed roguish
joy in the glance which was exchanged between Eva and her mother, which
had pained her. She had heard their happy voices on the stairs, and then
the driving away of the carriages. Now they were gone; now all was still
and desolate in the house, and large tears traced their way down
Leonore's cheeks. She seemed to herself so forlorn, so uncared for, so
solitary in the world!

At that moment the door was softly opened, a smiling face looked in, and
a light fascinating figure sprang forward through the chamber towards
her, kissed her, laughed, and glanced with roguish and ardent affection
into her astonished face.

"Eva!" exclaimed Leonore, scarcely trusting her eyes; "Eva, are you
here? How! whither came you? Are you not gone with the others?"

"No, as you see," returned Eva, embracing her, laughing, and looking
quite happy; "I am here, and mean to stay here."

"But why? What is the meaning of it?" asked Leonore.

"Because I would much rather remain here with you than go anywhere
else," said Eva. "I have bid Axelholm with all its splendours good day."

"Ah! why have you done so? I would much rather you had not!" said
Leonore.

"See you! I knew that," returned her sister, "and therefore I put on a
travelling dress, like the rest, and took leave of you with them. I
wanted to take you by surprise, you see. You are not angry with me, are
you? You must now be contented with it--you can't get rid of me! Look a
little happy on me, Leonore!"

"I cannot Eva," said Leonore, "because you have robbed yourself of a
great pleasure on my account, and I know that it must have been
difficult for you. I know that I am neither agreeable nor pleasing, and
that you cannot love me, nor yet have pleasure with me, and on that
account I cannot have pleasure in your sacrifice. It becomes you to be
with the joyful and the happy. Ah! that you had but gone with them!"

"Do not talk so, unless you would make me weep," said Eva; "you do not
know how the thought of giving up all these festivities in order to
remain alone with you has given me pleasure for many days, and this
precisely because I love you, Leonore! yes, because I feel that I could
love you better than all the rest! Nay, do not shake your head--it is
so. One cannot help one's feelings."

"But why should you love me?" argued the poor girl; "I am, indeed, so
little amiable, nobody can endure me, nobody has pleasure in me; I would
willingly die. Ah! I often think it would be so beautiful to die!"

"How can you talk so, Leonore?" said her sister; "it is not right! Would
you wish such horrible grief to papa and mamma, and me, and all of us?"

"Ah!" said Leonore, "you and the sisters would soon comfort yourselves.
Mamma does not love me as much as any of you others; nor papa either.
Ottil R. said the other day that everybody talked of it--that I was
beloved neither by father nor mother."

"Fie!" exclaimed Eva, "that was wicked and unjust of Ottil. I am quite
certain that our parents love us all alike. Have you ever observed that
they unjustly make any difference between us?"

"That I never have," said Leonore; "they are too good and perfect for
that. But, do you think I have not observed with how different an
expression my father regards me to that with which he looks on you or
Louise? Do you think that I do not feel how cold, and at times
constrained, is the kiss which my mother gives me, to the two, the
three, yes, the many, which, out of the fulness of her heart, she gives
to you or to Gabriele? But I do not complain of injustice. I see very
well that it cannot be otherwise. Nature has made me so disagreeable,
that it is not possible people can bear me. Ah! fortunate indeed are
they who possess an agreeable exterior! They win the good-will of people
if they only show themselves. It is so easy for them to be amiable, and
to be beloved! But difficult, very difficult is it for those who are
ill-favoured as I!"

"But, dear Leonore, I assure you, you are unjust towards yourself. Your
figure, for example, is very good; your eyes have something so
expressive, something at the same time so soft and so earnest; your hair
is fine, and is of a beautiful brown;--it would become you so if it were
better dressed; but wait awhile, when you are better I will help you to
do it, and then you shall see."

"And my mouth," said poor Leonore, "that goes from ear to ear, and my
nose is so flat and so long--how can you mend that?"

"Your mouth?" replied Eva, "why yes, it is a little large; but your
teeth are regular, and with a little more care, would be quite white.
And your nose?--let me see--yes, if there were a little elevation, a
little ridge in it, it would be quite good, too! Let me see, I really
believe it begins to elevate itself!--yes, actually, I see plainly
enough the beginning of a ridge! and do you know, if it come, and when
you are well, and have naturally a fresh colour, I think that you will
be really pretty!"

"Ah! if I can ever believe that!" said Leonore, sighing, at the same
time that an involuntary smile lit up her countenance.

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