t her work. "You see, Fraeulein, I once had to teach a young lady, who,
during the very first lesson, overwhelmed me with such a quantity of
learning, had so much to say about cuneated letters, Egyptian
mythology, besides relating various narratives about art and
literature, that, beside her, I seemed to myself like a child just
beginning its A, B, C. To be sure her wise little head was like a
lumber-room, where articles for the most varied and opposite uses are
stowed side by side without order or connection. But in her innocence
she had no suspicion of the existence of anything like clearness and
coherence, or cause and effect, in subjects and ideas. So I paid her
and her mother the compliment of saying that I found it impossible to
improve the young lady's education, and withdrew as speedily as
possible."

The father and daughter were silent. Edwin, as if thinking of entirely
different matters, walked about the room examining the sketches and
studies.

"Well, my child?" the little artist spoke inquiringly; he was growing
restless, for he did not exactly understand the state of affairs.

"You will not complain of me for a similar cause," the young girl now
said, her voice trembling with suppressed excitement, while her eyes
sparkled with a strange light. "My case is exactly the reverse of that
young lady's. So long as my mother taught me, all study was a pleasure.
She did not make it easy; I was compelled to study out everything by
myself, and I never dared to repeat anything by rote, for she chided me
when she discovered it. Perhaps I did not learn much, or a great
variety; but everything made a strong impression upon me, and I have
not forgotten a word. But she died when I was yet very young, and
afterwards when I tried to get on by myself with the aid of books
everything seemed uninteresting, and I no longer took any pleasure in
study. And besides all this I must hasten to confess, Herr Doctor,
that, after all, you may not expect too much, that I have an actual
aversion to history and geography, and no ability to remember them. On
the contrary--but you are smiling. I expected as much; you did not
suppose it was so bad."

"And for what have you a taste, Fraeulein? What is it you desire to
learn? Do not take offence at my smile. It only meant, that, at your
age, I was not very unlike you."

She made no reply but cast a timid glance at her father. The little man
seemed to understand it. He went to the other win