looked at the volume of
Schiller, which must be returned in a few days. If he questioned her,
it would be very shocking to know nothing about the poems; what could
he think except that she did not care for the improvement of her mind?
So she sat down in the dark shop, whose half open door, admitted
nevertheless light enough to read, laid the little book in her lap and
took her knitting in her hand, for she thought it a waste of time to
read without working. But she did not open the volume; her thoughts
wandered far away to him of whom for weeks she had heard nothing, even
through her brother. She would have liked to send him the stockings,
which had long been finished, and then if he were in earnest--"he does
not really love me," she sighed to herself. "But if he knew how often I
think of him--he is such a good man!"

She remembered his sturdy figure and dark, honest face, with its black,
bushy beard, so distinctly, that she could not help laughing, even at
the moment when she secretly acknowledged her love. But she had a great
respect for him on account of his trade of printer, which she supposed
to be the most learned of all. Besides she knew through her brother
that he composed all sorts of essays, which were very fine and always
eagerly seized by the workmen. That such a clever and remarkable man
should in her presence be as confused as a boy, not even daring
to tell her he loved her, flattered her innocent and very modest
self-consciousness not a little; nay it really touched her when she
thought how dearly he must love her, that he did not seek some more
distinguished and highly educated person. In return she meant to love
him truly and faithfully and to learn a great deal, and thought it her
duty, above all, to at least read Schiller, though she did not exactly
understand the beautiful words. If _he_ would sit beside her and read
them aloud, it would be so much easier. She liked to listen to his
voice, and her brother had often boasted what an orator he was. But as
he did not appear, she could do nothing but try to read to herself. She
had just opened the book and read the first lines of the "Melancholie
an Laura," when a black shadow suddenly appeared between her and the
light, and she started up with a low cry, letting the book fall on the
floor.

The subject of her secret thoughts was standing before her, or rather
kneeling at her feet to pick up the book, stammering out an apology for
the sudden entrance wh