cheek? Is it the blush of triumphant beauty, or is it merely a passing tint, cast by the roses over which she is bending?
Lisette busies herself with the plant, and trains its branches with more than usual assiduity. It would seem that she redoubled her care of the rosebush, by way of making up to its donor for her momentary faithlessness. "I will never see him more," said Lisette to herself; "I will never come near the window again at eight o'clock. To-day I have done so for the last time. But why so? I am guilty of nothing—I have never once spoken to him; all I know is, that he always passes this way precisely at eight o'clock; but I have no right to think that it is on my account. Perhaps it is not good for my rosebush to be watered so late; and Ludvig is so jealous—oh, so jealous! I can't imagine why; I am sure he has no cause for jealousy. It is too bad. Ah—these men! these men! They expect from us one sacrifice after another, but not the slightest pleasure will they allow to us."
During this monologue her eye had fallen on the parcel left by the waiting-maid. Her curiosity becomes excited to see what is in it, and especially what sort of a shawl the mate had bestowed upon "that stupid Lena." She stands for some time debating with herself, her eye riveted on the parcel; at length she determines to open it. What a beauty it is! No countess could have a handsomer shawl. Lisette wraps it round her, and betakes herself again to the glass, where she gazes at it with the utmost admiration, slightly tinctured perhaps with a little dash of envy. Taking it off, and laying it on her table, she places herself a second time in the old leather arm-chair, and sinks back into the world of dreams. But it is no longer the box at the theatre that occupies her imagination; her head is full of the charming shawl. She fancies that she has one as pretty; that her plain dress is exchanged for another of splendid materials; that she is surrounded by admirers, and—little coquette that she is—that she gives them no hope, for she loves only Ludvig; but still, she does not quite discard them.
But where is Ludvig himself all this time? Look round, and you will behold him now!
Do you see that young man with an intelligent countenance, with bright speaking eyes, and dark curly hair, who at this moment has entered the room? That is Ludvig. His open colla rexhibiting his throat, and the rest of his somewhat fantastic costume, at once evince that he is an artist; but we must add, that he is an artist of no ordinary talent, and that as a portrait-painter he is admired and sought after. He has closed the door softly, and stealing forward on tiptoe, he approaches Lisette, who, lost in her magic world of dreams, is not at all aware of his presence. She is leaning gracefully back in the large easy-chair, her eyes closed, their long dark lashes reposing on her fair soft cheeks, and an enchanting smile, caused by the drama of her imagination, playing around her rosy lips. He bends over her as if he would fain, from the expression of her countenance, read her unspoken thoughts. What a study for a painter! What an exquisite pleasure for an ardent lover! Ludvig can no longer merely look—he snatches up her hands, and covers them with kisses.
Lisette opens her eyes. At that very moment she had been dreaming of him; she had refused all her other suitors for his sake; she had forgotten the caprice, the jealousy, the absurdities of which she had often
