“A kiss, dear sister.”
“Bah! kisses are for lovers. Will you make me a finger ring?”
“I will make you a dozen.”
“Of gold?”
“No, of iron.”
“Fie, fie! None of your jesting;” and Anniki stamped her foot angrily, while she gave her brother a look which told him more plainly than words that this was no unimportant matter. “I tell you that the Maid of Beauty is in great danger. Now, if you wish to know more [[181]]you must make me a gold ring—yes, six gold rings to grace my pretty fingers.”
Pouting and haughty, she turned as if going away; but Ilmarinen held her by the hand.
“You shall have the six gold rings, my sister,” he said—“yes, I will make you seven this very day.”
“And four or five pretty girdles inlaid with silver?”
“Oh, certainly, Anniki—anything that you wish. But make haste and tell me the secret.”