"You wanted to make a request of me, dear child. Why do you hold back?"
"I, a request? What request?"
"You would like that Lina should come here, but you avoid acknowledging this to me and to her. If you will honestly confess to me that you would like this, I will arrange the matter."
Manna confessed that she had not had the courage to express her wish.
By the next day Lina was settled at the cottage with the Professorin, and there she was merry as a cricket, and enlivened the whole house with her cheerfulness, and her fresh bubbling gaiety alone. Wherever she was, walking, standing, or sitting, she sang to herself like a bird on the branch, and the breasts of the hearers were refreshed. The Aunt played an accompaniment for her songs, and the clear, bell-like tone of her voice was full of fresh health and bright joy. She sang without the least effort, and her love added a tone of deep feeling to her singing, which one would not have supposed she possessed.
She was perfectly undisciplined, but she was very particular about her dress, especially since she had been in love, and she liked to look at herself in the glass. But to bother herself about the inner life,—"That's not my style," was her uniform manner of speaking. She lived her own life, was a Catholic, because she was born so, and it was too much trouble to make any change. She laughed, sang and danced; yesterday is gone, and to-morrow will look out for itself. Amongst all these persons who bore a heavy burden in their souls, who were imposing some heavy task upon themselves, Lina was the only light-hearted child of nature; and she was regarded by those who looked upon her rather with envious than contemptuous eyes.
"Ah! could one but be like her!" sighed each one in his own way.
Lina, gradually, became less demonstrative and excitable through the quiet influence of the Professorin. It gave her pleasure to be able to understand a great deal of what the Professorin said; but there were many things beyond her comprehension. What does it matter? One must not take all there is in the dish,—one must leave something for others.
It was beautiful to see Manna coming in her bright summer dress through the park to the cottage. But she manifested to the Professorin only a respectful confidence; she always addressed her as Madame, and spoke to her in French, the language she had been accustomed to use at the convent. To all questions she gave direct answers.
"Had you any particular friend at the convent?" the Professorin once asked.