Tears rose to Downie’s eyes, and when Uncle saw that he laughed louder.  “Yes, it is a fine partisan my nephew has chosen,” he seemed to say, “You are not playing your part, my little girl.”  And every time she had looked at him the brown eyes had repeated:  “Had my brother not done it, I would have done it myself.”  Downie was not quite sure that the eyes did not say “nephew.”  And fancy how she behaved.  She began to cry, and rushed from the room.

But it was not then that “it” came, nor during the walk of the forenoon.

Then she was occupied with something quite different.  Then she was overcome with pleasure at the beautiful place and that nature was so wonderfully near.  She felt as if she had found again something she had lost long, long ago.

People thought she was a city girl.  But she had become a country lass as soon as she put her foot on the sandy path.  She felt instantly that she belonged to the country.

As soon as she had calmed down a little she had ventured out by herself to inspect the place.  She had looked about her on the lawn in front of the door.  Then she suddenly began to whirl about; she hung her hat on her arm and threw her shawl away.  She drew the air into her lungs so that her nostrils were drawn together and whistled.

Oh, how brave she felt!

She made a few attempts to go quietly and sedately down to the garden, but that was not what attracted her.  Turning off to one side, she started towards the big groups of barns and out-houses.  She met a farm-girl and said a few words to her.  She was surprised to hear how brisk her own voice sounded; it was like an officer at the front.  And she felt how smart she looked when, with head proudly raised and a little on one side, moving with a quick, free motion and with a little switch in her hand, she entered the barn.

It was not, however, what she had expected.  No long rows of horned creatures were there to impress her, for they were all out at pasture.  A single calf stood in its pen and seemed to expect her to do something for him.  She went up to him, raised herself on tiptoe, held her dress together with one hand and touched the calf’s forehead with the finger-tips of the other.

As the calf still did not seem to think that she had done enough and stretched out his long tongue, she graciously let him lick her little finger.  She could not resist looking about her, as if to find some one to admire her bravery.  And she discovered that Uncle Theodore stood at the barn-door and laughed at her.

Then he had gone with her on her walk.  But “it” did not come then, not then at all.  It had only wonderfully come to pass that she was no longer afraid of Uncle Theodore.  He was like her mother; he seemed to know all her faults and weaknesses, and it was so comfortable.  She did not need to show herself better than she was.

Uncle Theodore wished to take her to the garden and to the terraces by the pond, but that was not to her mind.  She wished to know what there could be in all those big buildings.