returning to the house, she ran to her room and drew the note from her glove. It was not sealed and so there was no excuse for not reading it. It was full of protestations of love; affectionate, but very respectful. It had been translated word for word from a German novel, but as Lisabeta did not know a word of German, she was quite pleased with it. Notwithstanding this, she felt very ill at ease, because it was the first time in her life that she had something to hide. She shuddered at the thought of being in correspondence with an unknown young man; and regretting her indiscretion she was at a loss to know what to do.
Would she cease to work near the window and by studied coolness discourage the young officer in his attentions — would she send back his note or answer it in a very decided manner, leaving no doubt as to her feelings in the matter? What should she do? Having no friend from whom she could seek advice, she finally decided to answer his note.
She sat down to write, drew some paper toward her and remained in deep thought. More than once she began a sentence, but tore up the paper before it was half completed. Sometimes she thought the wording was too blunt, and again she felt she was wanting in reserve. At last,
