dark and mysterious the copses; how deep and endless the paths appeared under their canopy of leaves; how the flowers shimmered and shone in the light of the multi-coloured lanterns; how the masses of foliage hung down from the trees like gorgeous draperies!
The procession halted in one of the glades of the park. The Lieutenant's chair was set down; and, as his dazzled eyes blinked into a grotto of leaves and flowers, Flora, on a pedestal, encircled by little nymphs, sang in a glorious voice a song of praise to the creator of the garden.
"Oh, Hedda!" the Lieutenant cried to the beautiful goddess of flowers, "I might have known that you would not forget me!"
It is about four in the afternoon of a seventeenth of August. The two smaller girls, Selma and Gerda, are dressing for the party. The housemaid pokes her head into the attic storeroom—the room the little girls are occupying temporarily, since their own has been placed at the convenience of visiting relatives.
"Selma and Gerda, you'll have to go down and receive," shouts the maid. "No one else is ready, and the first carriages are coming up the drive."
Now the little girls have to hurry; but at the same time they are thrilled with joy. Just think! It's beginning—the seventeenth of August is beginning!
They button up their frocks, pin on their kerchief
