"Well, it's too late now; no good crying over spilt milk," laughed Jenny.
The luggage arrived; her mother and sisters watched the unpacking with interest. Ingeborg and Bodil carried the things into Jenny's room and put them in the drawers; the embroidered underlinen, which Jenny told them she had bought in Paris, was handled almost with reverence. There was great joy over the gifts to themselves: shantung for summer dresses and Italian bead necklaces. They draped themselves in the stuff before the glass, and tried the effect of the beads in their hair. Kalfatrus alone showed some interest in her pictures, trying to lift the box that contained her canvases.
"How many have you brought?"
"Twenty-six, but they are mostly small ones."
"Are you going to have a private exhibition—all by yourself?"
"I don't know yet—I may, some day."
While the girls were washing up and Nils was making his bed on the sofa, Mrs. Berner and Jenny had a chat in Jenny's room over a cup of tea and a cigarette.
"What do you think of Ingeborg?" asked Mrs. Berner anxiously.
"She looks well and bright, but, of course, she will need looking after. We must send her to live in the country till she gets quite strong again."
"She is so sweet and good always—bright and full of fun, and so useful in the house. I am so anxious about her; I think she has been out too much last winter, dancing too much, and keeping late hours, but I had not the heart to refuse her anything. You had such a sad childhood, Jenny—I know you missed the company of other children, and I was sure you and papa would think it right to let the child have all the pleasure she could." She sighed. "My poor little girls, they
