e it here; and every day for one hour you
may walk thus here, without fear of being seen, for I shall send the
gardener elsewhere during that time."

When they were leaving the garden, Marie plucked two forget-me-nots, and
gave one of them to Ludwig. From that day she had one more pleasure: the
garden, a free sight of the sky, the warmth of the sunlight--enjoyments
hitherto denied her; but, all the same, the childlike cheerfulness faded
more and more from her countenance.

Ludwig, who was distressed to see this continued melancholy in the
child's face, searched among his pedagogic remedies for a cure for such
moods. A sixteen-year-old girl might begin the study of history. At this
age she would already become interested in descriptions of national
customs, in archaeological study, in travels. He therefore collected for
Marie's edification quite a library, and became a zealous expounder of
the various works.

In a short time, however, he became aware that his pupil was not so
studious as she had been formerly. She paid little heed to his learned
discourses, and even neglected to learn her lessons. For this he was
frequently obliged to reprove her. This was a sort of refrigerating
process. For an instructor to scold a youthful pupil is the best proof
that he is a being from a different planet!

One day the tutor was delineating with great eloquence to his
scholar--who, he imagined, was listening with special interest--the
glorious deeds of heroism performed by St. Louis, and was tracing on the
map the heroic king's memorable crusade. The scholar, however, was
writing something on a sheet of paper which lay on the table in front of
her.

"What are you writing, Marie?"

The little maid handed him the sheet of paper. On it were the words:

"Dear Ludwig, love me."

Map and book dropped from the count's hands. The little maid's frank,
sincere gaze met his own. She was not ashamed of what she had written,
or that she had let him read it. She thought it quite in the order of
things.

"And don't I love you?" exclaimed Ludwig, with sudden sharpness. "Don't
I love you as the fakir loves his Brahma--as the Carthusian loves his
Virgin Mary? Don't I love you quite as dearly?"

"Then don't love me--quite so dearly," responded Marie, rising and going
to her own room, where she began to play with her cats. From that hour
she would not learn anything more from Ludwig.

The young man, however, placed the slip of paper contain