aspens. I did not appear to see him, but it was this man. He concealed himself and saw me digging the ground, and certainly it was me, whom he followed, and me, whom he was spying after. I could not move my rake, or touch one atom of soil, without his noticing it.”
“Oh! yes, yes, he is in love with you,” said Cornelius. “Is he young? Is he handsome?”
Saying this, he looked anxiously at Rosa, eagerly waiting for her answer.
“Young? handsome?” cried Rosa, bursting into a laugh. “He is hideous to look at; crooked, nearly fifty years of age, and never dares to look me in the face, or to speak, except in an under tone.”
“And his name?”
“Jacob Gisels.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Then you see that, at all events, he does not come after you.”
“At any rate, if he loves you, Rosa, which is very likely, as to see you is to love you, at least you don’t love him.”
“To be sure, I don’t.”
“Then you wish me to keep my mind easy?”
“I should certainly ask you to do so.”
“Well, then, now as you begin to know how to read, you will read all that I write to you of the pangs of jealousy and of absence, won’t you, Rosa?”
“I shall read it, if you write with good big letters.”
Then, as the turn which the conversation took began to make Rosa uneasy, she asked,—
“By-the-bye, how is your tulip going on?”
“Oh, Rosa, only imagine my joy; this morning I looked at it in the sun, and after having moved the soil aside which covers the bulb, I saw the first sprouting of
