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girlish fear of showing a girl’s weakness that made her eyes
mock and her lips jeer many a time when he asked for a
kiss or, vowing love, would draw from her the words all
lovers long to hear? Why was it, then, that when she was
alone, and her imagination had wearied of picturing for the
thousandth time the glories of the future, she would often
sit gazing straight before her hopelessly, and feel
unutterably lonely and forsaken?
In the early afternoon of an August day Marie and Ulrik
Frederik were riding, as often before, along the sandy road
that skirted the Sound beyond East Gate. The air was fresh
after a morning shower, the sun stood mirrored in the water,
and blue thunder-clouds were rolling away in the distance.
They cantered as quickly as the road would allow them,
a lackey in along crimson coat following closely. They rode
past the gardens where green apples shone under dark
leaves, past fish-nets hung to dry with the raindrops still
glistening in their meshes, past the King’s fisheries with
red-tiled roof, and past the glue-boiler’s house, where the
smoke rose straight as a column out of a chimney. They
jested and laughed, smiled and laughed, and galloped on.
At the sign of the Golden Grove they turned and rode
through the woods toward Overdrup, then walked their
horses through the underbrush down to the bright surface
of the lake. Tall beeches leaned to mirror their green vault
in the clear water. Succulent marsh-grass and pale pink
feather-foil made a wide motley border where the slope,
brown with autumn leaves, met the water. High in the
shelter of the foliage, in a ray of light that pierced the cool
shadow, mosquitoes whirled in a noiseless swarm. A red
butterfly gleamed there for a second, then flew out into the
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