“Wait until to-morrow,” murmured Gerda drowsily; “then you will see the happiest day of the whole year.”

Karen tried to tell her that every day was happy, now that she could run and play like other children; but she fell asleep in the middle of the sentence, and Gerda hadn’t even heard the beginning of it.

“The sun has been dancing over the hills for hours,” called Grandmother Ekman at five o’clock the next morning.  “It is time for everyone to be up and making ready for church.”

All the festival days in Sweden begin with a church service, and everyone goes to church.  In the cities the people walk or ride in street-cars or carriages; but in Dalarne some ride on bicycles, some drive, some sail across the lake in the little steamer, and others row in the Sunday boat.

Grandmother Ekman always followed the good old custom of rowing with her neighbors in the long boat, and six o’clock found her at the wharf with the three children, all carrying a beautiful branch of white birch with its shining green leaves.

“This is just what I have wanted to do, ever since you told me about it at the Sea-gull Light,” whispered Karen, as they found seats in the boat and began the pleasant journey across the peaceful, shining water.

Gerda was in a great state of excitement.  She discovered so many things to chatter about that Grandmother Ekman said at last, “Hush, child!  You must compose yourself for church and the Bible reading.”

Then Gerda became sober at once, and sat quietly enough during the service, until she fell to thinking how lovely the May-pole would look in its gala dress of green, red, yellow and white.

“It will be wearing a rainbow skirt, like all the girls in the village,” she thought; and surprised her grandmother by smiling in the midst of the sermon, at the thought of how very tall this Maypole maiden would be.

The May-pole is always the tallest, slenderest tree that can be found, and the one which Gerda and Karen had helped to decorate was at least sixty feet from base to tip.  It had been brought from the forest by the young men of the village, and trimmed of its bark and branches until it looked like the mast of a vessel.  Hoops and crosspieces reaching out in every direction were fastened to the pole, and it was then decorated with flowers, streamers, garlands and tiny flags.

Now it was leaning against the platform in the village green, not far from the church, where it was to be raised after the service.

When Gerda and Karen reached the green they found a group of young people gathered about the pole, tying strings of gilded hearts, festoons of colored papers, and fluttering banners to its yard-arms.

“Now it is ready to be raised!” shouted Nils Jorn at last, and everybody fell away to make room for the men who were to draw it into its place with ropes and tackle.

“Suppose it should break!” gasped Karen, and held her breath while it rose slowly in the air.  As it settled into the deep hole prepared for it, Nils Jorn waved his cap and shouted.  Then some one else shouted, and soon everybody was shouting and dancing, and the festival of the green leaf had begun.