"You are not going to be angry with me, Hugo!" she said. And she lifted her eyes again upon me—irresistible, compelling, solvent of dignities, and able to break down all pride.
O all ye men who have never seen my Helene look up thus at you—but only common other eyes, go and hang yourselves on high trees for very envy. Well, as I say, Helene looked up at me. She kept on looking up at me.
And I—well, I hung a moment on my pride, and then—clasped her in my arms.
"Dear minx, thrice wicked one!" I exclaimed, "wherefore do you torment me—break my heart?"
"Because," said she, escaping as soon as she had gained her pretty, rascal way, "you think yourself so clever, Hugo, such an irresistible person, that you must be forever returning to this window and getting this book of chivalry by heart. Now you are going to be cross again. Oh, shame, and with your little sister—
"'That never did you any harm,
But killed the mice in your father's barn.'"
With such babyish words she talked the frowns off my face, or, when they would not go fast enough, hastened them by reaching up and smoothing them away with her finger.
"Now," she said, setting her head to the side, "what a nice sweet Great
Brother! Let him sit down here on the great chair."
So I sat down, well pleased enough, not knowing what mischief the pranksome maid had now in her head, but judging that the matter might turn out well for me.
Then Helene stole round to the back of the chair, and, taking me by the ears, she gave first one and then the other of them a pull.