“Come into the house, first,” said the mother, turning a deaf ear to the shower of questions; and when they were clustered about her in the house, she told them about the pale, delicate little maiden, with a bandage upon her arm, so tight that she could scarcely use it.  She said that the child was apparently about Paula’s age; that she spoke excellent German, and looked very nice and well-bred; that her name was Dora, and last of all, that she was to come into the garden after dinner, and then they could make her acquaintance.  All was now curiosity and excitement; how did the child look—­what would she say?  And each began to speculate what his own particular relation would be to the new-comer.

Paula stood still in intense delight; and only said, “Oh, if she is so nice, and just my age, too, mamma, how happy I shall be!” She had visions of a great, indissoluble friendship, and she could hardly wait till afternoon.  Rolf was sure that Dora was just the right age to guess his charades, and that he should make friends with her at once on that ground.  The twins had a feeling that Dora belonged especially to them, because they had shot her; and they thought she would be the very one to help them in carrying out their schemes; for they often needed a third person, and Paula was never in the mood.

“Well, I am glad that Dora is coming,” said Hunne, “for I can go to her Saturdays, when all the chairs are standing on their heads, and no one else will have me.”

Last of all Jule asked, “Hunne, I want to get some good out of Dora, too, what shall it be?”

“I know,” said the child, after thinking awhile, “she can help you get off your riding-boots—­you know there weren’t enough of us, last time.”

“The very thing,” said Jule, laughing.

Dora was also greatly excited—­she fairly trembled.  One moment she did not know what to do for joy that the longed-for happiness had come, and she was to go into the garden, among the lovely, sweet-smelling flowers, and all those merry children.  But the next moment she was afraid.  She had watched the children from a distance, and she knew them all by sight; she already felt partly acquainted with them, and each one had excited an individual interest in her mind.  But they had not even seen her, at all; she was a perfectly strange child to them.  And then she said to herself with real distress, that she was so ignorant and awkward, and they knew so much, and were so clever, that they would certainly despise her, and would want to have nothing to do with her.  She kept running it all over and over in her mind during dinner, and could scarcely eat a mouthful, in her excitement.  Before she knew it, the time had come, and her aunt said,

“Now, Dora, you can go!”