"No wine, please; I have had wine, and am never the better for it. I believe I was born pale, and shall never look anything else."
"I like you pale, if it is not that you are delicate."
"I think I am pretty strong; I can work hard, and do."
"Do not!" she said, putting her loveliest hand on my hair, and turning my face to hers, "do not, lieber, work hard,—not too hard."
"And why not? for I am sure you do."
"That is the very reason I would have you not do so. I must work hard."
"But if you are delicate, Fräulein Cerinthia?"
"God will take care of me; I try to serve him. None have to answer for themselves as musicians." She suddenly ceased, passed one hand over her face. She did not stir, but I heard her sigh; she arose, and looked from the window; she sat down again, as if undecided.
"Can I do anything for you?" I asked.
"No, I want nothing; I am only thinking that it is very troublesome the person who sent those fruits could not come instead of them. I ought to have kept it from you, child as you are."