anxiously and sadly won. Fortune ought to come of
herself. Just as Petter Nord was fighting with the street boys, the
noble lady should stop her coach at the shop-door, and invite the
Vaermland boy to the place at her side. But now Halfvorson's voice
still rolled in his ears. His brain was full of it. He thought of
nothing else, knew nothing else. Work and renunciation, work and
renunciation, that was life and the object of life. He asked
nothing else, dared not think that he had ever wished anything
else.

The next day he did not dare to kiss the fifty-crown note, did not
dare even to look at it. He was silent and low-spirited, orderly
and industrious. He attended to all his duties so irreproachably
that any one could see that there was something wrong with him. The
old Mayor was troubled about the boy and did what he could to cheer
him.

"Did you think of going to the Mid-Lent ball this evening?" asked
the old man. "So, you did not. Well, then I invite you. And be sure
that you come, or I will tell Halfvorson where you keep your
mouse-cages."

Petter Nord sighed and promised to go to the ball.

The Mid-Lent ball, fancy Petter Nord at the Mid-Lent ball! Petter
Nord would see all the beautiful ladies of the town, delicate,
dressed in white, adorned with flowers. But of course Petter Nord
would not be allowed to dance with a single one of them. Well, it
did not matter. He was not in the mood to dance.

At the ball he stood in a doorway and made no attempt to dance.
Several people had asked him to take part, but he had been firm and
said no. He could not dance any of those dances. Neither would any
of those fine ladies be willing to dance with him. He was much too
humble for them.

But as he stood there, his eyes began to kindle and shine, and he
felt joy creeping through his I hubs. It came from the dance music;
it came from the fragrance of the flowers; it came from all the
beautiful faces about him. After a little while he was so
sparklingly happy that, if joy had been fire, he would have been
surrounded by bursting flames. And if love were it, as many say it
is, it would have been the same. He was always in love with some
pretty girl, but hitherto with only one at a time. But when he now
saw all those beautiful ladies together, it was no longer a single
fire, which laid waste his sixteen-year-old heart; it was a whole
conflagration.

Sometimes he looked down at his boots, which were by no means
dancing sh