Petter Nord looked as if he would like to weep.  Of course he wished to be rich, naturally he wished to be fortunate, but fortune should not be so 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 shoes.  But how he could have marked the time with the broad heels and spun round on the thick soles!  Something was dragging and pulling him and trying to hurl him out on the floor like a whipped ball.  He could still resist it, although his excitement grew stronger as the hours advanced.  He grew delirious and hot.  Heigh ho, he was no longer poor Petter Nord!  He was the young whirlwind, that raises the seas and overthrows the forests.