nge smile played about his lips, and his head was lifted
defiantly.

The onlookers were filled with admiration and wonder--never had they
seen such a dance! Olof took a second partner, then a third; danced
a couple of rounds with each, and took a new. He did not lead them to
their places after, but slipped each lightly, bowed to another, and
whirled her off at the same furious pace.

"What's come over him now?" whispered the guests.

"He's going to dance with them all--for the last time, it seems."

"Ay, it looks like it!" And they laughed and watched the extraordinary
scene--after all, it would have been strange if something out of the
common had not happened at Olof's wedding.

Once more Olof set his partner down and bowed to another. Formally
this time, as if with emphasis: it was Kyllikki he had chosen now. The
girl stood dismayed, uneasy, not knowing what to think.

The fiddler, noting who was the latest choice, pressed his instrument
closer under his chin, and put his whole fire into the work. The music
swelled and sank, the bridal pair danced lightly and gracefully--sight
to see. Once, twice, three times, four times round, and still they
danced.

Then as they passed the fiddler for the fifth time, the music suddenly
stopped--Olof had snatched the instrument with his right hand as
he passed, and next moment it was shivered to a thousand fragments
against the table. A single string whined painfully as it broke.

A gasp went up from the onlookers; all stared in amazement at the
pair. Neither showed any sign of confusion; they stood easily, as if
the whole thing were a prearranged conclusion.

"I hope I haven't startled anyone,'" said Olof gaily. "But the fiddle
that has played my youth away--must play no more! Good-night!"

A sigh of relief and admiration passed through the crowd. What a
finish! What a youth! None but he could ever have done the like.

And the guests laughed, and the bridegroom laughed, and old Moisio
himself laughed where he sat: "Ay, that's the way! Turn your back on
the rest and give all to one--my daughter's worth a fiddle at least!"

But the bride was pale--as it might have been one Sunday evening
by the river, when she sat alone on the bank, watching a man stride
hastily away, with a flush of anger on his cheek.

THE BRIDAL CHAMBER

Footsteps approaching.

A man, with a dark fire smouldering in his eyes, entered in--the pale
bride followed him.

The man walked up an