feet, and sit there looking through the old port-folios full of faded etchings.
Struensen and his lovely royal mistress; Frederick the Sixth, a poor thin-legged boy in warlike uniform receiving the troops; the fire of Christianborg Castle in 1794; Robespierre who on the same page is shown jumping out of the window of the town hall and being carried off to the guillotine, with mangled arms and legs; Fru Heiberg—the great actress—first as a bewitching, unconscious maiden, and later as a sentimental celebrity with long shawl and ethereal glances.
Or I take a piece of work and try to make myself useful, or I read the newspaper to grandmama, who with the greatest interest follows the foreign news and nods solemnly every time we hear of fresh labour strikes.
Yes, I am happier at grandmama's—she and old Marie vie with each other in spoiling me. As soon as I am settled down comfortably grandmama says with a roguish shake of her head to her old maid: 'Well, Marie, I suppose we have nothing at all to-day to give Miss Julie.'
After which Marie answers, just as roguishly, 'I really don't know, ma'am, but I better have a look.'
To the general surprise she brings a little later either an orange or a piece of home-made cake, or some pudding with jam. There is always something, and it always tastes childishly good because these dear old people are so happy in giving it to me, and understand so well that just what I need is to be treated like a sorrowful child.
