I lost my heart to her from the very first moment.  There is no sense in it, for she is the most insignificant little person; but I was won by seeing all the eyes that followed her when she drove away.  In the first place, I see how her father and mother look after her from where they stand in the doorway of the baker’s shop.  Her father even has tears in his eyes, but her mother has no time to weep yet.  She must use her eyes to look at her daughter as long as the latter can wave and nod to her.  And then of course there are merry greetings from the children in the little street and roguish glances from all the pretty, little factory girls from behind windows and doors, and dreamy looks from some of the young salesmen and apprentices.  But all nod good-will and god-speed to her.  And then there are anxious glances from some poor, old women, who come out and curtsey and take off their spectacles to be able to see her as she drives by in state.  But I cannot see a single unfriendly look following her; no, not in the whole length of the street.

When she is out of sight, her father wipes the tears from his eyes with his sleeve.

“Don’t be sad now, mother!” he says.  “You will see that she will come out all right.  Downie will manage, mother, even if she is so little.”

“Father,” says the mother with great emphasis, “you speak in a strange way.  Why should Anne-Marie not be able to manage it?  She is as good as anybody.”

“Of course she is, mother; but still, mother, still—­I would not be in her shoes, nor go where she is going.  No, that I would not!”

“Well, and what good would that do, you ugly old baker!” says mother, who sees that he is so uneasy about the girl that he needs to be cheered with a little joke.  And father laughs, for he does that as easily as he cries.  And then the old people go back into their shop.

In the meantime Downie, the little silken flower, is in very good spirits as she drives along the road.  A little afraid of her betrothed, perhaps; but in her heart Downie is a little afraid of everybody, and that is a great help to her, for on account of it every one tries to show her that they are not dangerous.

Never has she had such respect for Maurits as to-day.  Now that they have left the back street, and all her friends are behind them, it seems to her that Maurits really grows to something big.  His hat and collar and whiskers stiffen, and the bow of his necktie swells.  His voice grows thick in his throat, and he speaks with difficulty.  She feels a little depressed by it, but it is splendid to see Maurits so impressive.

Maurits is so clever; he has so much advice to give!—­it is hard to believe—­but Maurits talks only sense the whole way.  But that is just like Maurits.  He asks her if she understands clearly what this journey means to him.  Does she think it is only a pleasure trip along the country road?  Thirty miles in a good chaise with her betrothed by her side did seem quite like a pleasure trip, and a beautiful place to drive to, a rich uncle to visit—­perhaps she has thought that it was only for amusement?