Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Mamsell Marie
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could let it vanish once it had been mirrored on its
shining surface.
At parting, she kissed Mamselle and asked her to
come to Borg. Poor Mamselle Marie’s heart was as
empty as the swallow’s nest at Christmas. Though
free, she sighed for chains like a slave freed in old
age.
Again there came for her a time of joy and a time
of sorrow; but it did not last long—only one short
week.
Every day the Countess sent for her and entertained
her with anecdotes of her suitors, and Mamselle
Marie laughed as she had never laughed before.
They became the best of friends, and the Countess
soon knew all about the young organ-builder and
about the parting.
At twilight she would have Mamselle sit in the
window-seat in the little blue cabinet, hang the
guitar-ribbon round her neck, and make her sing
love songs. The Countess sat where she could see
the old spinster’s shrunken figure and ugly little
head silhouetted against the red evening sky, and
she likened the poor Mamselle to a languishing
maid of the castle. Her songs were all of tender
shepherds and cruel shepherdesses, and her voice
was the thinnest voice imaginable; so one can easily
understand that the Countess had her little
laugh at the ludicrousness of it all.
There was a party at Borg, as was natural when
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