I answered that I was, and repeated my former question.
“It must have been one of my great-uncle’s books,” she said, “he was going to be a priest, but he died before being ordained. We were always Catholics.”
“And how came you to keep this stall, child?” I asked, becoming interested.
“It is my father’s,” she answered quickly; “and he has been ill for two months, so I keep it for him. His uncle left him all his books.”
“And is your father so poor, then?”
“Very poor, mein Herr,” said the girl, with a longing glance at the book I still held in my hand, as if she were thinking of the price a connoisseur might be tempted to give for it. “His father and grandfather were booksellers,” she continued, “but not like him; they had large libraries and plenty of men working under them. That was long before I was born, mein Herr.”
“And I suppose your father got into difficulties. But anything would have paid better than this, my poor child.”
“My father would not go to work for any other bookseller, not if he were the king,” laughed the girl, more merrily than I thought the case warranted; “and he is a regular student. My mother used to earn money in many ways, teaching, writing, sewing; and I did the housework. She died two years ago, and we have nothing but the book-stall now to keep my sick father and my little crippled brother.”
I thought to myself, Why, here is a regular romance; perhaps the inevitable lover of German stories is going to peep out next, from the frank revelations of my new friend. At any rate, let us follow it up. So I said aloud: “If your father is willing to part with this book, I should like to buy it. But I should be very glad to see him and chat with him about it. Do you think he could see me?”