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the Count’s mother had come home. It was not a
grand affair, only the parish folk being invited; but
every one had a jolly time, as usual.
The dining-hall was on the lower floor, and after
supper the guests did not go upstairs again, but
ensconced themselves in the adjoining room, which
was Countess Marta’s living-room. The Countess
picked up Mamselle Marie’s guitar, and began to
sing for the company.
She was a merry-maker, this Countess, and a
clever mimic. Now she had taken it into her head
to mimic Mamselle Marie. Turning her eyes
heavenward she proceeded to sing in a thin, squeaky
voice.
“No no, no no, Countess!” pleaded Mamselle
Marie.
But Märta Dohna was having sport, and the
guests could hardly help laughing, though no doubt
they felt sorry for poor Mamselle Marie.
The Countess took from a pot-pourri jar a handful
of dried rose-leaves and, with tragic gestures,
went up to Mamselle Marie, and sang with mock
emotion:
“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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