Often a respectable grandmother, the fingers of whom were wrinkled by age, and which neither weave nor spin, would bid the wild troop be silent, as she told one of the mad histories of old times.  Then, one of the work-women would merrily ring out the peasant songs, the chorus of which her companions would re-echo.  After a few hours of toil, a young man would arise, and give a pleasant signal.  All chairs and benches would at once be removed; the work-shop would be changed into a ball-room.  To supply the deficiency of an orchestra, one of the spectators defined the modulations of a dance by some old traditionary song.  Young men and women took each other by the hand, and formed together one of those country groups which are the elements of the chorographic art.  They then parted, making a rendezvous for the next day, for another hearth-side, but for similar amusements.  All the work-women, returned to their own houses, where they gaily retailed all the episodes of the evening’s events, some recording merely a silent glance, which met their own, or a furtive clasp of the hand which had aroused a blush.  More than one happy acquaintance originates in one of those northern evenings—­and more than one girl, who, in the autumn, has a heart free as air, in the spring wears on her finger the ring of a promised bride.

When the weather was good, Ebba went out sometimes alone, to be present at these re-unions.  All rose to welcome her with a sentiment of respect and attention, for she was kind to the poor.

The young people silently withdrew, and the matron of the house gave her the most pleasant seat by the hearth-side.  The children, however, to whom she brought every day fruits and presents, leaped and danced around her.  The old village story-tellers were also glad when she came, for no one Questioned them with more kindness, or listened with more attention to their popular tales.  Her delicate tournure, her graceful form, her pale and melancholy look, were in striking contrast with those around her.  To see her motionless and mute amid the merry girls and the robust young persons, would have induced a belief that she was one of those supernatural beings, one of those fairy inhabitants of woods and waters—­strange legends about whom she so much delighted in.  She entered and retired silently, and her light feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground.  She flitted away like an aerial being, leaving with all those whom she visited an indefinable impression, and arousing in some the vague remembrance of a superstitious being.

One evening, when she was about to leave, a woman, who had looked Attentively at her, said, “Dear young lady; how feeble and ill she seems!”

“Yes,” said a timid voice, “one might almost think she had joined in the elfin dance.”

“What is the elfin dance?” asked a young man; “I have seen many, but never that.”

“God grant you never may,” said the one to whom he spoke; “the elves are wonderful beings, who come we know not whence; and live, we know not how, in the mountain gorges and woods.  Probably they are the descendants of some race accursed of God, and sentenced to live on earth, deprived of every joy and hope.  They never enter towns; do not associate with us; but when they see a solitary wanderer, they seek to win him to them, and exercise a most unhappy influence over him.