My life now began to be different. All the week I worked for that one glorious day on which my lessons took place. I had bought a grammar of the English language, and studied it whenever I could spare a minute. My teacher seemed much pleased with my , but I soon found out that she had made up her mind to give me lessons in more things than English.  
One day when I sat with her in her room, that had never lost its charm for me, she asked me quite why a button was missing from my jacket, and why my nails were always dirty. I felt exceedingly ashamed at the two questions, and some silly reply. At first I thought she did not like me, but she was so sweet during the rest of that lesson that I felt sure she had grown fond of me. When I got home that evening the cook was already in bed. She looked at me in surprise because I did not go to bed at once, as I was in the habit of doing, but took my sewing-basket and searched its contents.
 
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
 
"For a pair of scissors."
 
"What on earth do you want them for now?"
 
"Oh, only for my nails."
 
"Which nails?"
 
But by that time I had discovered what I wanted, and having sat down on the edge of my bed, I started to clean one finger after the other.
 
"Well," my friend exclaimed, "something has got into your head to be sure."
 
"Nothing at all—but don't you think my hands are simply ?"
 
"I believe you are really a proud one," she said, and looked at me with great displeasure.
 
During the time that I took my lessons, Miss Risa de Vall was always to point out to[Pg 107] me the many great and little things that make for beauty, order, and usefulness, and never for a moment did she waver in her noble task. Gently, yet sternly, she checked my often wild behaviour, firmly and with fault she found with me. After she had known me for about six months she asked me one evening whether I had no other friend besides the cook. I said "No," and then she told me that she had had a young lady as pupil in the town where she used to teach a few years ago. Would I like to write to her and ask her whether she cared to make friends with me? I was, of course, eager to get to know the girl so tenderly spoken of by my beloved mistress, and agreed with all my heart. I wrote to her on the following day, and received an answer by return of post. Her letter was brief, but sweet. When I showed the note to the cook, she said: "That is a real lady, to be sure." I had, of course, no doubt about that. By the light of the candle, I sat down a few days later to write to my new friend, but found it extremely difficult to begin. But after I had managed to start I never stopped until I had filled at least four to six pages. What I wrote about were all things of which I thought constantly, but never to anybody—nay, not even to the cook.
 
During all this time I had heard nothing from my brother, and nobody knew of his whereabouts. One day I got a note from my father in which he told me that he had received a letter from Charlie. He wrote that he was very well off, and made quite a lot of money. When I read that, my heart beat faster. It is true that I never quite believed what he had said to me at our parting; but now I recalled every word of it, and wondered in a vague sense whether he was going to take me to Vienna. I remembered his advice about reading Schiller and Goethe, and felt a little alarmed because I had not yet done so.
 
"There is no doubt," I said to myself, "that he is moving in society by now, and my utter ignorance of Schiller's dramas would be a source of constant to him." The fact that he had not written to me since he went away did not surprise me in the least. I thought that he had been obliged to work very hard, and had no time to spare. In order to be prepared for him in case he should really come for me, I made it my serious business to get a book by Schiller. But where was I to get it from? I had no money to spare for books, and could not think of buying one. In the dining-room there was a book-case, but it was always locked up. The books there seemed to be regarded more for an than for use, since nobody ever took one out to read.
 
But after another five or six months had elapsed, and no further news was heard of my brother, I gradually forgot those glowing pictures of an easy future, and finally thought no more about them.
 
When I had been at my place for about two years, I happened to make the acquaintance of a young lady whom I met occasionally in the woods when walking with the children. She used to sit down on the bench beside me, and while the children ran about and played among the trees, she would sometimes start a conversation.
 
 
"Why do you always stay at the same place?" she asked me one day.
 
"Where else should I go?"
 
"I could not answer that question , but a girl like you ought to try what luck she can have in the world."
 
"What do you mean?"
 
"What do I mean? I mean that a girl like you ought to have quite a different position from the one you have at present."
 
"But why do you say a girl like I am?"
 
"No nonsense, if you please; you must know as well as I do, that you are as clever as you are pretty."
 
I thought about what my brother had told me, and then looked down at my hands.
 
"I always thought that I was very silly and very ugly."
 
"Fiddlesticks! you are neither the one nor the othe............