"Do not be unhappy, my little Wenceslas," said Lisbeth with feeling.
"My cousin Hortense thought your seal quite pretty, I am sure; and I
will manage to sell your bronze group, you will see; you will have
paid me off, you will be able to do as you please, you will soon be
free. Come, smile a little!"

"I can never repay you, mademoiselle," said the exile.

"And why not?" asked the peasant woman, taking the Livonian's part
against herself.

"Because you not only fed me, lodged me, cared for me in my poverty,
but you also gave me strength. You have made me what I am; you have
often been stern, you have made me very unhappy----"

"I?" said the old maid. "Are you going to pour out all your nonsense
once more about poetry and the arts, and to crack your fingers and
stretch your arms while you spout about the ideal, and beauty, and all
your northern madness?--Beauty is not to compare with solid pudding
--and what am I!--You have ideas in your brain? What is the use of
them? I too have ideas. What is the good of all the fine things you may
have in your soul if you can make no use of them? Those who have ideas
do not get so far as those who have none, if they don't know which way
to go.

"Instead of thinking over your ideas you must work.--Now, what have
you done while I was out?"

"What did your pretty cousin say?"