always be near him because of that
feeling of confidence he gives one."

Then gradually the day began to break, the faint light of dawn came
stealing into the hut, revealing the many blanched faces. The
twitter of a bird was heard, then of another, and another. Strong
Ingmar's cow began to low for her breakfast, and his cat, who never
slept in the house on nights when there was dancing, came to the
door and mewed. But no one inside moved until the sun rolled up
from behind the eastern hills. Then, one by one, they stole out
without a word or even a good-bye.

Outside the house the departing guests beheld the signs of the
night's devastation. A huge pine, which had stood close to the
gate, had been torn up by the roots and thrown down; branches and
fence posts were littered over the ground; bats and owls had been
crushed against the side walls of the hut.

Along the broad roadway leading to the top of Mount Klack all the
trees had been blown down. No one could bear to look at this long,
so they all hurried on toward the village.

It was Sunday, and most people were still in their beds, but a few
persons were already out tending to their cattle. An old man had
just emerged from his house with his Sunday coat, to brush and air
it. From another house came father, mother, and children--all
dressed up for a holiday outing. It was a great relief to see
people quietly going about their business, unconscious of the awful
things that had happened in the forest during the night.

At last they came to the riverside, where the houses were less
scattered, and then to the village. They were glad to see the old
church and everything else. It was comforting to see that
everything down here looked natural: the sign-board in front of the
shop creaked on its hinges as usual; the post-office horn was in
its regular place; and the inn-keeper's dog lay sleeping, as
always, outside his kennel. It was also a gladsome surprise to them
to see a little bird-berry bush that had blossomed overnight, and
the green seats in the pastor's garden, which must have been put
out late in the evening. All this was decidedly reassuring. But
just the same no one ventured to speak until they had reached their
several homes.

When Gertrude stood on the steps of the schoolhouse, she said to
Ingmar: "I have danced my last dance, Ingmar."

"And I, too," Ingmar solemnly declared.

"And you'll become a clergyman, won't you, Ingmar? And if you can't
become