Again the eager straining of eyes; again the shouts and cheering;
again the thrill of excitement, as, after a few moments, four or five,
in advance of, the rest, come speeding back, nearer, nearer, to the
white columns.

Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl in
yellow, but Gretel,--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that ever
skated. She was but playing in the earlier race: _now_ she is in
earnest, or, rather, something within her has determined to win. That
lithe little form makes no effort; but it cannot stop,--not until the
goal is passed!

In vain the crier lifts his voice: he cannot be heard. He has no news
to tell: it is already ringing through the crowd,--_Gretel has won
the silver skates!_

Like a bird, she has flown over the ice; like a bird, she looks about
her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook
where her father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her: the girls
are crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear.
From that hour, none will despise her. Goose-girl, or not, Gretel
stands acknowledged Queen of the Skaters.

With natural pride, Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp is witnessing
his sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. He is
kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and working hastily at his
skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once.

"Are you in trouble, mynheer?"