e, like the
old-world deities with which poets personified grass, wood, stream,
ocean and sky.

The petals of the flowers speak of it, ask whether he loves or not: the
birds of song on the house-tops: everything converses of love: and what
maiden is there who does not believe what they say?

Poor maidens!

If they but knew how little men deserved that the world of prose should
receive its polytheism of love from them!

Poor Czipra!

What a slave she was to her master!

Her slavery was greater than that of the Creole maiden whose every limb
grows tired in the service of her master:--every thought of hers served
her lord.

From morn till even, nothing but hope, envy, tender flattery, trembling
anxiety, the ecstasy of delight, the bitterness of resignation, the
burning ravings of passion, and cold despair, striving unceasingly with
each other, interchanging, gaining new sustenance from every word, every
look of the youth she worshipped.

And then from twilight till dawn ever the same struggle, even in dreams.

"If I were thy dog, you would not treat me so."

That is what she once said to Lorand.

And why? Perhaps because he passed her without so much as shaking hands
with her.

And at another time:

"Were I in Heaven, I could not be happier."

Perhaps a fleeting embrace had made her happy again.

How little is enough to bring happiness or sorrow to poor maidens.

One day an old gypsy woman came by chance into the courtyard.

In the country it is not the custom to drive away these poor vagrants:
they receive corn, and scraps of meat: they must live, too.

Then they tell fortunes. Who would not wish to have his fortune so
cheaply.

And the gypsy woman's deceitful eye very soon finds out whose fortune to
tell, and how to tell it.

But Czipra was not glad to see her.

She was annoyed at the idea that the woman might recognize her by her
red-brown complexion, and her burning black eyes, and might betray her
origin before the servants. She tried to escape notice.

But the gypsy woman did remark the beautiful girl and addressed her as
"my lady."

"I kiss your dear little feet, my lady."

"My lady? Don't you see I am a servant, and cook in the kitchen: my
sleeves are tucked up and I wear an apron."

"But surely not. A serving maid does not hold her head so upright and
cannot show her anger so. If your ladyship frowns on me I feel like
hiding in the corner, just to escape from the anger in your eye