Magnhild; Dust

"But how have you your hair? You have an oval face and your hair done up in that way? No" – and before Magnhild could offer any resistance she was pressed down into a chair. "Now I shall" – and the lady commenced undoing the hair. Magnhild started up, fiery red and frightened, and said something which was met with a firm: "Certainly not!"

It seemed as though a strong will emanated from the lady's words, arms, fingers. Magnhild's hair was unfastened, spread out, brushed, then drawn loosely over the head and done up in a low knot.

"Now see!" and the mirror was held up before Magnhild.

All this increased the young woman's embarrassment to such a degree that she scarcely realized whose was the image in the glass. The elegant lady standing in front of her, the delicate perfume, the child at her knee who with its earnest eyes fixed on her said, "Now you are pretty!" – and the guest at the opposite window who at this moment looked down and smiled. Magnhild started up, and was about to make her escape, but the lady only threw her arms around her and drew her farther into the room.

"Pray, do not be so bashful! We are going to have such a nice time together;" and once more her attention was full of that sweetness the like of which Magnhild had never known. "Run over now after your hat and we will start!"

Magnhild did as she was bid. But no sooner was she alone than a sense of oppression, a troubled anxiety, wrung her heart, and the lady seemed detestable, officious; even her kindness was distorted into a lack of moderation; Magnhild failed to find the exact word to express what distressed her.

"Well? Are you not coming?"

These words were uttered by the lady, who in a jaunty hat, with waving plume, beamed in through the window. She tossed back her curls, and drew on her gloves. "That hat becomes you very well indeed," said she. "Come now!"

And Magnhild obeyed.

The little girl attached herself to Magnhild.

"I am going with you," said she.

Magnhild failed to notice this, because she had just heard steps on the stairs. Tande, the composer, was coming to join them.

"How your hand trembles!" cried the little one.

A hasty glance from the lady sent the hot blood coursing up to Magnhild's neck, cheeks, temples – yet another from Tande, who stood on the door-steps, not wholly free from embarrassment, and who now bowed.

"Are we going up in the wood?" asked the little girl, clinging tightly to Magnhild's hand.

"Yes," replied the lady; "is there not a path across the fields behind the house?"

"Yes, there is."

"Then let us go that way."

They went into the house again, and passed out of the back door, through the garden, across the fields. The wood lay to the left of the church, and entirely covered the plain and the tower mountain slopes. Magnhild and the child walked on in advance; the lady and Tande followed.

"What is your name?" asked the little girl.

"Magnhild."

"How funny, for my name is Magda, and that is almost the same." Presently she said: "Have you ever seen papa in uniform?"

No, Magnhild never had.

"He is coming here soon, papa is, and I will ask him to put it on."

The little girl continued to prattle about her papa, whom she evidently loved beyond all else upon earth. Sometimes Magnhild heard what she was saying, sometimes she did not hear. The pair walking behind spoke so low that Magnhild could not distinguish a single word they were saying although they were quite near. Once she gave a hasty glance back and observed that the lady's expression was troubled, Tande's grave.

They reached the wood.

"Just see! here at the very edge of the wood is the most charming spot in the world!" exclaimed the lady, and now she was radiant again, as though she had never known other than the most jubilant mood. "Let us sit down here!" and as she spoke she threw herself down with a little burst of delight and a laugh. Tande seated himself slowly and at a little distance, Magnhild and the child took their seats opposite the pair.