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chalk lines. Evenings, a pale dreamer often sat in
the lilac bower, and up in Mamselle Marie’s little
room the newly strung guitar twanged to old love
songs, which Marie had learned from her mother.
The young organ-builder meanwhile went about,
happy and care-free, lavishing his smiles and
attentions upon these languishing women, who
quarrelled over him while he was away at his work.
Then, at last, came the day when he must depart.
The conveyance was at the door, the luggage had
been tied on behind, and the young man said
farewell. He kissed Fru Moreus on the hand, gathered
the weeping girls in his arms, and kissed them on
the cheek. He wept himself at having to leave there,
for he had passed a pleasant summer in the little
grey cottage. At the very last he looked around for
Mamselle Marie.
She came down the old attic stairs in her best
array, the guitar strung round her neck on a broad,
green silk ribbon, a bouquet of “moon-roses” in her
hand; for that summer her mother’s rose-tree had
bloomed. She stood before the young man, struck
her guitar, and sang:
“Thou’rt going far from us. Ah, come back again!
’T is friendship’s voice that entreats thee.
Be happy, forget not a true, loving heart,
Which in Värmeland’s valleys awaits thee.”
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