'For a country girl I surely may Look on myself with some small pride; Alonzo--yes! all the world will say, Thou hast chosen a nice little bride.'
At that moment she fancies she hears some one knock at her door. In the twinkling of an eye everything is put in due order; the shawl is hung on the peg in its proper place, the bonnet laid conspicuously on the table, and 'Come in' is answered to the summons. 'Come in, Ludvig,' she repeats in a clearer voice; but Lisette must surely have been mistaken, for no one enters at her bidding. She goes towards the door and listens, she peeps through the keyhole, and finally opens the door and looks out, but no mortal is there.
The foregoing scene is resumed: the shawl is taken again from its sanctum, the bonnet is replaced on her rich glossy brown hair; again her dark eyes shine, and again she smiles in the most captivating manner. Happy little Lisette! How unpretending must be her claims to the joys of life! A bonnet is sufficient to minister to her happiness. She parades up and down the room. How proudly she carries her little head; what fascination in her air and figure! She has that grace which is neither acquired nor affected; that untaught grace which nature, in its caprice, sometimes bestows on a milliner's girl, and denies to a lady of the court, or to a princess!
At that moment her glance falls on the forgotten common straw hat with its pink ribbons, and the sight of it instantly dispels all her gaiety. Who now wears such a bonnet? It is quite, quite out of fashion, unfortunate Lisette! You--you alone are born to hide your lovely countenance under such a hideous shade; and not one single male being may behold how charmingly the modern little silk bonnet becomes you. Another is to enjoy the fruit of your labour, to sport the work of your hands, and the production of your taste and skill! Poor girl! It is hard, it is unjust, your sad fate is really to be pitied.
With the slightest look in the world of chagrin she has cast herself into the leather arm-chair to take some rest after her fatigues. The clock has struck half-past seven, and she has been working since four in the morning. She can hardly repress her impatience. 'What can have become of Ludvig!' she exclaims to herself. 'Everything seems to conspire against me to-day; surely he cannot have taken it into his head to visit me in the forenoon, when he knows that _this_ is my leisure time? Why does he not come? For though he plagues me sometimes, and he is often vexed with me, he knows very well how glad I am to see him.'