"And you were never," he asked timidly as she paused, "a little bit
in love?"
"I can look after myself," she answered, with a silvery laugh, and
Wilhelm felt as if an iron band had been lifted from his heart, like
the trusty Henry's in the story.
"That points to marvelous wisdom in a child of society--seeing so
many people--so attractive! You are indifferent then to admiration?"
"I did not say that. My fancy has been often enough touched, but--"
"But your heart has not?"
"No."
"Really not?" continued he, in a tone of voice in which, he himself
detected the anxiety.
She shook her head, and looked down thoughtfully. But after a short
pause she raised her rosy face and said, "No--better die than speak
untruths--I was rather in love with our pastor who confirmed me. He
was thin and pale with long hair, much longer than yours. And he
spoke very beautifully and powerfully--I felt sentimental when I
thought of him. But I soon got to know his wife, who was as pointed
and hard as a knitting needle, and his children, whose number I
never could count exactly, and my youthful feelings received a
severe chill." She laughed, and Wilhelm joined her heartily.
It was now his turn to relate his story. He was as to his birthplace
hardly a German, but a Russian, as he first saw the light in Moscow,
in the year 1845.
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