progress.

She wrote that they often spoke of me at home; I was a bad boy not to
write mother a letter: she was very ill and it was her sole delight to
be able to speak of me. As often as her parents or brother wrote to
Fanny, she would add a few lines after opening the letter, in my name,
then take it to my mother and read it to her, as if I had written. How
delighted she was! She did not know my German writing, so she readily
believed it was I who had written. But I must be a good boy and write
myself, for some day mother and grandmother would discover the deceit
and would be angry.

My heart was almost bursting.

I pored over the letter I had read, and sobbed bitterly as I had never
before done in my life.

My dear only mother! thou saint, thou martyr! who sufferest, weepest,
and anguishest so much for my sake, while I mix in a society where they
mock women, and mothers! Canst thou forgive me?

When I had cried myself out, my face was covered with tears. Henrik
raised me from my seat upon the floor.

"Give me this letter," I panted; and I kissed him for giving it to me.

Many great historical documents have been torn up since then, but that
letter is still in my possession.

"Now I cannot go to bed. I will stay up until morning and finish the
work I have neglected. I thank you for what you have written in my
stead, but I cannot accept it. I shall do it myself. I shall do
everything in which I am behindhand."

"Good, Desi, my boy, but you see our candle has burned down; and
grandmother is already asleep, so I cannot ask her for one. Still, if
you do wish to sit up, go down to the bakehouse, they are working all
night, as to-morrow is Saturday: take your ink, paper, and books with
you. There you can write and learn your lessons."

I did so. I descended to the court, washed my head beside the fountain,
then took my books and writing material and descended to the bakehouse,
begging Marton to allow me to work there by lamp-light. Marton irritated
me the whole night with his satire, the assistants jostled me, and drove
me from my place; they sang the "Kneading-trough" air, and many other
street-songs: and amid all these abominations I studied till morning;
what is more, I finished all my work.

That night, I know, was one of the turning-points in my life.

Two days later came Sunday: I met Pepi in the street.

"Well, old fellow: are you not coming to-day to see little Melanie?
There will be a great dance-r