"Pity she has the child to attend to," exclaimed the student from Bonn. He
had hitherto relied upon three scars and a ribbon to produce an effect, but
the sister of a Baroness demanded more than these.

Absorbing days followed. Had she been one whit less beautifully born we
could not have endured the continual conversation about her, the songs in
her praise, the detailed account of her movements. But she graciously
suffered our worship and we were more than content.

The poet she took into her confidence. He carried her books when we went
walking, he jumped the afflicted one on his knee--poetic licence, this--and
one morning brought his notebook into the salon and read to us.

"The sister of the Baroness has assured me she is going into a convent," he
said. (That made the student from Bonn sit up.) "I have written these few
lines last night from my window in the sweet night air--"

"Oh, your DELICATE chest," commented the Frau Doktor.

He fixed a stony eye on her, and she blushed.

"I have written these lines:

"'Ah, will you to a convent fly,
So young, so fresh, so fair?
Spring like a doe upon the fields
And find your beauty there.'"

Nine verses equally lovely commanded her to equally violent action. I am
certain that had she followed his advice not even the remainder of her life