She sat on the floor
by the side of my great mail, and the chimney lighted her up, and
shone and blinked upon her, and made her glow and darken through a
wonder of fine hues. Now she would be gazing in the fire, and then
again at me; and at that I would be plunged in a terror of myself,
and turn the pages of Heineccius like a man looking for the text in
church.
Suddenly she called out aloud. "O, why does not my father come?"
she cried, and fell at once into a storm of tears.
I leaped up, flung Heineccius fairly in the fire, ran to her side,
and cast an arm around her sobbing body.
She put me from her sharply, "You do not love your friend," says
she. "I could be so happy too, if you would let me!" And then,
"O, what will I have done that you should hate me so?"
"Hate you!" cries I, and held her firm. "You blind less, can you
not see a little in my wretched heart? Do you not think when I sit
there, reading in that fool-book that I have just burned and be
damned to it, I take ever the least thought of any stricken thing
but just yourself? Night after night I could have grat to see you
sitting there your lone.
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