leaves in an autumn wind. It is supple, quick, silent, gliding. Its
noble, measured movements set the body free and let it feel itself
light, elastic, floating.

While Petter Nord danced the dance of his native land, there was
silence in the ball-room. At first people laughed, but then they
all recognized that this was dancing. It floated away in even,
rapid whirls; it was dancing indeed, if anything.

In the midst of his delirium Petter Nord perceived that round about
him reigned a strange silence. He stopped short and passed his hand
over his forehead. There was no black barn floor, no leafy walls,
no light blue summer night, no merry peasant maiden in the reality
he gazed upon. He was ashamed and wished to steal away.

But he was already surrounded, besieged. The young ladies crowded
about the shop-boy and cried: "Dance with us; dance with us!"

They wished to learn the polska. They all wished to learn to dance
the polska. The ball was turned from its course and became a
dancing-school. All said that they had never known before what it
was to dance. And Petter Nord was a great man for that evening. He
had to dance with all the fine ladies, and they were exceedingly
kind to him. He was only a boy, and such a madcap besides. No one
could help making a pet of him.

Petter Nord felt that this was happiness. To be the favorite of the
ladies, to dare to talk to them, to be in the midst of lights, of
movement, to be made much of, to be petted, surely this was happiness.