im air, as if his fingers had instinctively chanced upon them, then Ola shook his head and said to himself, "This is not quite straightforward of Hans."
In the mean time his brother sang away at his rich repertory. Schumann and Kierulf were his favourites, so he performed "Du bist die Ruh," "My loved one, I am prisoned," "Ich grolle nicht," "Die alten bosen Lieder," "I lay my all, love, at thyfeet," "Aus meinen grossen Schmerzen mach' ich die kleinen Lieder" — all with the same calm superiority, and that light, half-sportive accompaniment. The only thing that gave him a little trouble was that fatal point, "Ich legt' auch meine Liebe, Und meinen Schmerz hinein;" but even of this he made something.
Then Ola, who knew to a nicety the limits of his brother's musical accomplishment, noticed that he was leaving the beaten track, and beginning to wander among the keys; and presently he was horrified to find that Hans was groping after that unhappy "Hope's clad in April green." But fortunately he could not hit upon it, so he confined himself to humming the song half aloud, while he threw in the three famous minor chords.
"Now we're quite cool again," cried the fair one in light green, hastily.
There was a general burst of laughter at her eagerness to get away, and she was quite crimson when she said good-night.
Cousin Ola, who was standing near the hostess,
