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knew where they had grown, that she knew who
had plucked them.
There was no necessity to ask. Where in all the
country did blue anemones grow in April but in
the birchwood on the shore slope near Ekeby?
She gazed and gazed at the small blue stars
those happy flowers who win all hearts; those little
prophets who, beautiful themselves, are glorified in
the glamour of all that they foretell, of all the
beautiful to come. And as she looked at them, anger
began to shake her soul—anger which rumbled like
thunder and streamed like lightning. “By what
right,” she thought, “does the Countess wear that
bunch of anemones plucked on the shore road from
Ekeby?”
They were all tempters—Sintram, the Countess,
every one tried to tempt Gösta to evil ways; but she
would defend him, she would defend him against
them all. If it cost her her heart’s blood, she would
do it.
She felt she must see those flowers torn from the
Countess’s hand and cast aside, trampled, destroyed ,
before she left the little blue cabinet.
She felt this, and began a strife against the little
blue stars. In the salon the old ladies leaned their
heads against the backs of their armchairs, and
suspected nothing; the old gentlemen puffed their
pipes in peace and quietness in the Count’s room—all
was calm, only in the little blue cabinet raged
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