“Do you know German?” she said; then immediately repented that she had said it.

“I do,” was the answer.

She took up her apron and began to twist it with an air of embarrassment.

“I didn’t mean anything,” she whispered, at last.  “I only wanted to know.”

“You are very kind.”

That answer roused her; he was evidently making sport of her.

“Well, then, if you do, you may write my exercise for me.  I have marked the place in the book.”

And she flung her book over to the window, and he caught it on the edge of the sill, just as it was falling.

“You are a very strange girl,” he remarked, turning over the leaves of the book, although it was too dark to read.  “How old are you?”

“I shall be fourteen six weeks before Christmas,” answered she, frankly.

“Then I excuse you.”

“No, indeed,” cried she, vehemently.  “You needn’t excuse me at all.  If you don’t want to write my exercise, you may send the book back again.  I am very sorry I spoke to you, and I shall never do it again.”

“But you will not get the book back again without the exercise,” replied he, quietly.  “Good-night.”

The girl stood long looking after him, hoping that he would return.  Then, with a great burst of repentance, she hid her face in her lap, and began to cry.

“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she sobbed.  “But it was Ivanhoe and Rebecca who upset me.”

The next morning she was up before daylight, and waited for two long hours in great suspense before the curtain of his window was raised.  He greeted her politely; threw a hasty glance around the court to see if he was observed, and then tossed her book dexterously over into her hands.

“I have pinned the written exercise to the flyleaf,” he said.  “You will probably have time to copy it before breakfast.”

“I am ever so much obliged to you,” she managed to stammer.

He looked so tall and handsome, and grown-up, and her remorse stuck in her throat, and threatened to choke her.  She had taken him for a boy as he sat there in his window the evening before.

“By the way, what is your name?” he asked, carelessly, as he turned to go.

“Bertha.”

“Well, my dear Bertha, I am happy to have made your acquaintance.”

And he again made her a polite bow, and entered his parlor.

“How provokingly familiar he is,” thought she; “but no one can deny that he is handsome.”

The bright roguish face of the young girl haunted Ralph during the whole next week.  He had been in love at least ten times before, of course; but, like most boys, with young ladies far older than himself.  He found himself frequently glancing over to her window in the hope of catching another glimpse of her face; but the curtain was always drawn down, and Bertha remained invisible.  During the second week, however, she relented, and they had many a pleasant chat together.  He now volunteered to write all her exercises, and she made no objections.  He learned that she was the daughter of a well-to-do peasant in the sea-districts of Norway (and it gave him quite a shock to hear it), and that she was going to school in the city, and boarded with an old lady who kept a pension in the house adjoining the one in which he lived.