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know, who have repented the day they ever went
sleighing with you.”
It was in no mild frame of mind that the defiant
beauty entered the ball-room and glanced over the
assembled guests. The first she saw was Dahlberg,
small and bald, standing by the side of the tall,
slight, fair-haired Gösta. She felt she could have
turned them both out of the room.
Dahlberg came and invited her to dance—to be
met with cutting astonishment.
“Are you going to dance? You don’t usually
do so!”
Her girl friends came forward to congratulate
her.
“Don’t pretend, girls; you know very well no
one could fall in love with old Dahlberg. We are
both rich, and it is therefore a suitable match.”
The matrons pressed her hand and spoke of life’s
greatest happiness.
“Congratulate the pastor’s wife,” she said. “She
is more delighted about it than I am.”
There stood Gösta Berling, the gay cavalier,
welcomed by all for his bright smile and his ready
speech, which strewed gold-dust over life’s grey way.
It seemed to her that she had never really seen him
before. He was no outcast, no homeless jester—he
was a king among men, a born king.
Gösta and the other young men made a compact
against her; she must be taught the wrong she did
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