My life now began to be entirely different. All the week I worked gaily 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 zeal, 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 abruptly why a button was missing from my jacket, and why my nails were always dirty. I felt exceedingly ashamed at the two questions, and stammered 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 horrid?"

"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 zealous to point out to 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, dealing firmly and persistently with whatsoever 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 flickering 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 confided 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 humiliation 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 ornament 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 offhand, 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 other, and if I were in your place I should go to a town and try to get on."

"To Vienna?"

"No," she said thoughtfully, and then as if a new idea had just occurred to her: "Why don't you go to Buda-Pesth?"

"To Buda-Pesth? But that is in Hungary: what am I to do there?"

"The same thing that you do here, but with this difference, that there you will be regarded as a governess and not as a servant, and you will receive thrice the wages you receive here."

I folded my hands slowly and devoutly as I always did when I was moved by some great emotion. "But," I said at last, "am I ladylike enough for such a situation?"

"Of course; if you were not, do you think that I should advise you to take it?"

As she said this she stood up, and made preparations to go. She held out her hand to me and stroked my cheeks.

"Good-bye then, and think about what I have told you; I am fond of you and should like to see you happy."

After she had gone I repeated her words over and over again. It was chiefly the one sentence that haunted me. "You will be regarded as a governess and not as a servant, and you will receive thrice the wages that you receive here...." Thrice the wages!... I began to reckon in my thoughts. Three times ten shillings make thirty shillings every month ... that would be an enormous sum which I could never want all for myself. No, of course not. But I would send home half of it. My father's letters told me that business was no better, and a little help from somebody would be very convenient.

"Oh, most gracious Lord," I prayed in my heart of hearts, "thirty shillings every month would mean all the world to us."

I got home rather late that evening, and my mistress reproached me gently for not being punctual. For the first time I did not mind what she said. I had intended to tell the cook of my conversation with the girl in the woods, but then I thought it better to keep silence about it, and to wait events. During the following days I looked out eagerly for my new friend; but a fortnight elapsed before I saw her again. I hurried towards her, hardly taking notice of her cheerful salute.

"Where have you been all the time?" I asked.

"I have been busy at home," she replied, looking in astonishment at my face that was flushed with excitement. I tried to control myself and sat down beside her. Although very impatient and very anxious to continue our last conversation, I did not like to start the subject myself. She, however, did not seem to have given it another thought. Not a single word did she say about it.

When at last it grew dark and I knew that I had to start home, I took my courage in my hands, and said with as much indifference as I could assume: "Oh yes, I wanted to tell you that I have thought about everything you told me the last time, and that I shouldn't mind taking your advice and going to Buda-Pesth." I noticed that she was embarrassed, and the next words confirmed my suspicion.

"My dear," she said, "I am truly sorry to have aroused thoughts within you that might endanger the peace of your present life."

All the happiness that I had felt went out of my heart, and with a voice that was almost a sob, I said: "I really don't understand you.... You yourself said——"

"Quite so," she interrupted; "I have told you about things which, however, I regret to have mentioned now that I can see that my mother is perfectly right."

"Your mother ... you told your mother about it?"

"Well, yes, I have often mentioned you to her, and I told her of our last conversation. She thought it very unwise on my part to have made you discontented with the safe peaceful run"—she emphasized "safe"—"of your life."

"I understand. Your mother does not think that I am ladylike, and that it might not be quite safe to assume that I should keep my situation."

But after these weary words the girl put her arms round my neck.

"You little silly," she said, "don't you know that you are far too good to go into a situation at all? But since you happen to be poor and have got to earn your living, it is far better that you should stay at a place like our dear old Krems, where you are less likely to encounter the dangers that lurk for young people in a big city."

I had by now grasped the meaning of her words, and felt greatly moved.

"I understand you, but you need not be afraid.... I am no flirt."

"Hush," she replied in that soft, soothing voice that mothers use when quieting their babies; "I know that; but don't you see that it is hardly ever the flirt, but always the nice decent girl, who is taken in?"

"No, no," I answered blushingly; "I am sure that nothing will happen to me."

After these words my friend held me a little away from her, and gazed into my eyes long and earnestly.

"No, I don't think that anything will happen to you." Then she opened her little hand-bag and took out an envelope, which she pressed into my hands very hurriedly as if she was doing something wrong.

"There," she said, "I have brought it along after all, in case you wanted to go very much." After that she left me quickly, as if afraid that she might regret what she had done. Then I smoothed out the envelope and read the few words:

"Miklosch Sandor, Registry Office, Buda-Pesth."

I called the children together, and went home as if I was in a dream.