“You asked me if my heart had been touched yet.  Would it be right if I were to ask you the same question?”

“The question seems very natural to me—­I can truthfully assure you I have never been in love, not even with a pastor with long hair.”

“And has no one been in love with you?”

Wilhelm looked at the distance, and said dreamily: 

“No; yet once—­”

She felt a little stab at her heart, and said: 

“Quick, tell me about it.”

“It is a wonderful story—­it happened in Moscow.”

“But you were only a child then?”

“Yes, and she who loved me was a child too.  She was four years old.”

“Ah,” said Loulou, with an involuntary sigh of relief.

“When I was about ten years old I was sitting one sunny autumn afternoon in the yard of our house on a little stool, and was deep in a story of pirates.  Suddenly a shadow fell on my book.  I looked up, and saw a wonderfully beautiful child before me, a long-haired, rosy-cheeked little girl, who looked at me with deep shining eyes, half-timidly, and shyly held her hand before her mouth.  I smiled in a friendly way, and called to her to come nearer.  She sprang close to me, at once threw her arms joyfully round my neck, kissed me, sat down on my knee, and said, ’Now tell me what your name is.  I am a little girl, and my name is Sonia.  I am not going away from you.  Let me go to sleep for a little.’  An old servant who had followed her came up and said in astonishment, ’Well, young sir, you may be proud of yourself, the child is generally so wild and rough, and with you she is as tame as a kitten.’  I learned from her that little Sonia lived in the neighborhood, and that her aunt had come to look for her in our house.  She would not go away from me, and the old servant had to call her mother, who only persuaded her to return home with great difficulty.  She wanted to take me with her, and she was miserable when they told her that my mamma would not allow me.  The next morning early she was there again, and called to me from the threshold, ’I am going to stay with you all day, Wilhelm, the whole day.’  I had to go to school, however, and I told her so.  She wanted to go with me, and cried and sobbed when they prevented her.  Then her relations took her home, and I did not see her again.  Later I heard that the same afternoon she was taken ill with diphtheria, and in her illness she cried so much for me that her mother came to mine to beg her to send me to her.  My mother said nothing to me about it, fearing I might catch the disease.  Sonia died the second day, and my name was the last word on her lips.  I cried very much when they told me, and since then I have never forgotten my little Sonia.”

“A strange story,” said Loulou softly; “such a little girl to fall in love so suddenly.  Yes,” she went on, “if she had grown up—­”