“No, I don’t; I detest them.”
“You won’t, when you look back on them from Stockholm or Budapest. Freedom settles all that. Oh, but you’re the real Bohemian Girl, Clara Vavrika!” Nils laughed down at her sullen frown and began mockingly to sing:
“Oh, how could a poor gypsy maiden like me
Expect the proud bride of a baron to be?”
Clara clutched his shoulder. “Hush, Nils; every one is looking at you.”
“I don’t care. They can’t gossip. It’s all in the family, as the Ericsons say when they divide up little Hilda’s patrimony amongst them. Besides, we’ll give them something to talk about when we hit the trail. Lord, it will be a godsend to them! They haven’t had anything so interesting to chatter about since the grasshopper year. It’ll give them a new lease of life. And Olaf won’t lose the Bohemian vote, either. They’ll have the laugh on him so that they’ll vote two apiece. They’ll send him to Congress. They’ll never forget his barn party, or us. They’ll always remember us as we’re dancing together now. We’re making a legend. Where’s my waltz, boys?” he called as they whirled past the fiddlers.
The musicians grinned, looked at each other, hesitated, and began a new air; and Nils sang with them, as the couples fell from a quick waltz to a long, slow glide:
“When other lips and other hearts
Their tale of love shall tell,
In language whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well,”
The old women applauded vigorously. “What a gay one he is, that Nils!” And old Mrs. Svendsen’s cap lurched dreamily from side to side to the flowing measure of the dance.
“Of days that have as ha-a-p-py been,
And you’ll remember me.”