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stateliness, no stiffness, no patronizing air about that gay
young creature.
The old gentlemen were perhaps the most fond
of her. After they had seen her at a ball, you could
be quite certain that every one of them—the Judge
at Munkerud and the Rector of Bro, Melchior Sinclaire
and the Captain at Berga—they all confided
to their wives in the strictest confidence that if they
had met her thirty or forty years ago—!
“Yes, but she certainly had not been born then,”
cried the old ladies. And the next time they met
they teased the young Countess about stealing the
hearts of the old gentlemen from them.
The old ladies watched her with a certain amount
of anxiety. They remembered so well Countess
Marta. She, too, had been joyous and good and
beloved when she first came to Borg. And she was now
nothing but a vain coquette, and could think of
nothing but amusement. “If she only had a husband
who would make her do some work,” said the old
ladies. “If she would only set up a loom”—for to
weave is a comfort for all sorrow, it absorbs all other
interests, and has been the saving of many a woman.
The young Countess wished very earnestly to be
a good housewife. She knew of nothing better than
to be a happy wife in a happy home, and often
during one of the big assemblies she came and sat down
among the old ladies.
“Henrik wishes so much that I should become
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