er of the aunts.

By degrees we even became lively; and everything might have passed off
in peace and joy if uncle had not taken it into his head that we were
not doing our utmost in the dance, especially we gentlemen.

'What kind of dancing is that to show to people?' he exclaimed
contemptuously. 'There they go, mincing and tripping, as spindle-shanked
as pencils and parasols. No, there was another kind of legs in my time!
Pooh, boys, that was dancing, that was!'

We held up our heads and footed it until our ears tingled. But every
time that Uncle Ivar passed the ball-room door, his jeers became more
aggravating, until we were almost exhausted, each one trying to be
nimbler than another.

But what was the use? Every time uncle came back from his round through
the smoking-room, where he cooled his head in an enormous ale-bowl, he
was bolder and bolder, and at last he had aled so long in the cooling
bowl that his boldness was not to be repressed.

'Out of the way with these long-shanked flamingoes!' he cried. 'Now,
boys, you are going to see a real national dance. Come, Aunt Knoph, we
two old ones will make these miserable youngsters of nowadays think
shame.'

'Oh, no, my dear, do let me alone,' begged respectable Mrs. Knoph;
'remember, we are both old.'

'The devil is old,' laughed uncle merrily; 'you were the smartest of the
lasses, and I was not the greatest lout among the boys, that I know. So
come along, old girl!'

'Oh no, my dear Ivaren; won't you excuse me?' pleaded Mrs. Knoph. But
what was the use? The hall was cleared, room had to be made, and we
miserable flamingoes were squeezed up against the walls, so that we
might be out of the way, at all events.

All the young ladies were annoyed at the interruption, and we gentlemen
were more or less sulky over all the affronts that we had endured. But
the lady who had to play was quite in despair. She had merely received
orders to play something purely national; and no matter how often she
asked what dance it was to be, uncle would only stare politely at her
over his spectacles, and swear that this would be another kind of dance.

As far as Uncle Ivar was concerned, 'Sons of Norway' was no doubt good
enough for any or every dance; and as to the dance itself, the music was
really not so very important; for, you see, it happened in this way:

Uncle Ivar came swinging in with one arm by his side, and tall,
respectable Mrs. Knoph on the other. He placed her wi