“Then you shall have others,” said grandmother, and she took from a great chest in the corner an old blue skirt of Olga’s, a jacket which Olaf had outgrown, and a pair of Erik’s wooden shoes.

[Illustration:  “Hansa’s guardian.”]

Meekly, Hansa donned the strange jacket and skirt; but her tiny feet, accustomed to the soft boots of reindeer-skin, could not endure the hard, clumsy wooden shoes.

“Ah!” said grandmother, who was watching her.  “Then must you wear my old cloth slippers,” which were better, though they would come off continually.

“Now bring me my big scissors, that I may cut off this troublesome hair,” cried Dame Ingeborg.  “I do not like that long mane; Olga’s head is far neater!”

And, in spite of poor Hansa’s entreaties, all her long, beautiful, shining locks were cut short off.

But Hansa proved herself a merry little maid, who, after all, did not care for such trifles.  Besides, this, she was so helpful in straining the milk, preparing the breakfast, and bringing fresh twigs for the beds, that Dame Ingeborg quite relented toward her, and said: 

“You are very nice indeed—­for a Lapp child.  If you could only spin, I’d really like to keep you.”

Then Hansa moved quickly toward the great spinning-wheel which stood near the open door, and, before a word could be spoken, began to spin so swiftly, yet carefully, that grandmother, in her surprise, forgot to say “Ah,” but kissed the clever little maid instead.

“She’ll be proud,” said the boys, “because she is so wise.  Let us go by ourselves and play,”—­and away they ran.

“Come,” said Olga to Hansa; “though they have run away, they will not be happy without us,”—­which wise remark showed that she knew boys pretty well; and the two little maids went hand in hand, and sat down beside the boys.

“We have no room for two girls here,” said Olaf, and he gave poor Hansa a very rough push.

“What can you do to make us like you?” said Erik.

“I can tell stories,” said Hansa.  “Listen!”

And she told them a wonderful tale, far better than grandmother’s Sunday best one.

“That is a very good story,” said Olaf, when it was finished, “and you are not so bad—­for a girl.  But still, if my father had not bought you, I should have owned a reindeer for my sledge to-day.”

“And I should have had a fur coat and boots, to keep me warm next winter,” said Erik.

At this, Hansa opened her bright eyes very wide, and looked curiously at the boys for a moment, then said:  “Did you wish for those things?”

“We have wished for them all our lives,” said Erik; while Olaf, too sore at his disappointment to say a word, gave Hansa a rude slap instead.

That night, when all were sleeping soundly, little Hansa arose, dressed, and stole softly from the hut.  The sun was shining brightly, and it seemed as if the path over which father Peder had led her showed itself, and said, “Come, follow me, and I will lead you home!” And so it did, safely and surely, though the way seemed long, and her little feet ached sorely before she had gone many miles.  But she kept bravely on, till at last her father’s tent appeared in sight.  Then her heart failed her.