Gertrude perceived that her mother imagined the house had been haunted since the night of the dance.  If that idea were allowed to become fixed in Mother Stina’s mind, there would be no more dancing for Gertrude.

“I’m going up there to see what it is,” said the girl, rising; but her mother caught hold of her skirt.

“I don’t know whether I dare let you go,” she said.

“Nonsense, mother!  It’s best to find out what this is.”

“Then I’d better go with you,” the mother decided.

They crept softly up the stairs.  When they got to the door they were afraid to open it.  Mother Stina bent down and peeped through the keyhole.  Presently she gave a little chuckle.

“What pleases you, mother” asked Gertrude.

“See for yourself, only be very quiet!”

Then Gertrude put her eye to the keyhole.  Inside, benches and desks had been pushed against the wall, and in the centre of the schoolroom, amid a cloud of dust, Ingmar Ingmarsson was whirling round, with a chair in his arms.

“Has Ingmar gone mad!” exclaimed Gertrude.

“Ssh!” warned the mother, drawing her away from the door and down the stairs.  “He must be trying to teach himself to dance.  I suppose he wants to learn how, so he’ll be able to dance at the party,” she added, with smirk.  Then Mother Stina began to shake with laughter.  “He came near frightening the life out of me,” she confessed.  “Thank God he can be young for once!” When she had got over her fit of laughing, she said:  “You’re not to say a word about this to anybody, do you hear!”

***

Saturday evening the four young people stood on the steps of the schoolhouse, ready to start.  Mother Stina looked them over approvingly.  The boys had on yellow buckskin breeches and green homespun waistcoats, with bright red sleeves.  Gunhild and Gertrude wore stripe skirts bordered with red cloth, and white blouses, with big puffed sleeves; flowered kerchiefs were crossed over their bodices, and they had on aprons that were as flowered as their kerchiefs.

As the four of them walked along in the twilight of a perfect spring evening, nothing was said for quite a long time.  Now and then Gertrude would cast a side glance at Ingmar thinking of how he had worked to learn to dance.  Whatever the reason—­whether it was the memory of Ingmar’s weird dancing, or the anticipation of attending a regular dance—­her thoughts became light and airy.  She managed to keep just a little behind the others, that she might muse undisturbed.  She had made up quite little story about how the trees had come by their new leaves.

It happened in this way, she thought:  the trees, after sleeping peacefully and quietly the whole winter, suddenly began to dream.  They dreamt that summer had come.  They seemed to see the fields dressed in green grass and waving corn; the hawthorn shimmered with new-blown roses; brooks and ponds were spread with the leaves of the water-lily; the stones were hidden under the creeping tendrils of the twin flower, and the forest carpet was thick with star flowers.  And amid all this that was clothed and decked out, the trees saw themselves standing gaunt and naked.  They began to feel ashamed of their nakedness, as often happens in dreams.