While her parents were bidding farewell to the last of their guests, Johanna slipped into the sleeping-room where Lisbeth's little bed stood beside her mother's. She noiselessly drew near it, and bent over the rosy little face dimly revealed with its closed eyelids in the light of the night-lamp. Suddenly two soft arms encircled her neck, and the blue childish eyes laughed into her own.
"Darling, did I wake you?" Johanna asked.
"Oh, no; I have not been asleep; I cannot go to sleep. Stay with me, and let us tell each other stories."
"Dear, you must go to sleep," her sister said, trying to disengage herself, but the child clung to her.
"No, no, you must stay with me; it frightens me to be alone," she cried in a peevish tone, which would hardly have prevailed with Johanna had it not been for the little one's burning cheeks and feverishly brilliant eyes.
"Well, I will stay if you will promise to be perfectly still," she said, seating herself at the head of the bed, and putting her arm beneath Lisbeth's fair curly head.
"That is delightful," said the child. "But I came near crying when I heard them all talking and laughing so. Ah, it was such a lovely evening, was it not, Hanna dear?"
"Yes, Lisbeth; but now shut your eyes. Perhaps you may dream of it."
"I do not need to do that; I remember all about it. How lovely it was when I said my little verse and gave papa the wreath, and everybody clapped their hands and cried Brava! Oh, I wish I were grown up and could act every evening, like mamma!"
She had raised herself in the bed; Johanna laid her back upon the pillow.