 was introducing us. I was looking at a girl of about
eighteen, of the soubrette type, exactly what I had imagined. She
was small, very ordinary-looking, dressed simply, but with a certain
striving after elegance.

But the Baroness! Pale as death, with hollow cheeks, she looked more
fragile than ever. Her bangles jingled at her wrists; her slender neck
rose from her collar, plainly-showing the blue arteries winding towards
the ears which, owing to the careless way in which she had arranged her
hair, stood out from her head more than usual. She was badly dressed,
too. The colours of her frock were crude, and did not blend. I could
not help thinking that she was downright plain, and, as I looked at
her, my heart was filled with compassion, and I cursed my recent
conduct towards her. This woman a coquette? She was a saint, a martyr,
bearing undeserved sorrow.

The steamer started. The lovely August evening on the Lake of Maelar
tempted one to peaceful dreams.

Was it accidental or intended? The little cousin and the Baron were
sitting side by side at a distance sufficiently great to prevent our
overhearing each other. Leaning towards her, he talked and laughed
incessantly, with the gay, rejuvenated face of an accepted lover.

From time to time he looked at us, slyly, and we nodded and smiled back.

"A jolly girl, the little one, isn't she?" remarked the Baroness.

"It seems so," I answered, uncertain how to take her remark.

"She knows how to cheer up my melancholy husband. I don't possess that
gift," she added, with a frank and kindly smile at the group.

And as she spoke the lines of her face betrayed suppressed sorrow,
tears held back, superhuman resignation; across her features glided,
cloud-like, those incomprehensible reflections of kindness, resignation
and self-denial, common to pregnant women and young mothers.

Ashamed of my misinterpretation of her character, tortured by remorse,
nervous, I suppressed with difficulty the tears which I felt rising to
my eyes.

"But aren't you jealous?" I asked, merely for the sake
was introducing us. I was looking at a girl of about 
 eighteen, of the soubrette character, precisely what I had imagined. She 
 was small, very average - looking, trim simply, but with a certain 
 striving after elegance. 

 But the Baroness! Pale as end, with empty cheeks, she looked more 
 fragile than ever. Her bangles jingle at her wrists; her slender neck 
 rose from her collar, obviously - showing the blue artery winding towards 
 the ears which, owe to the careless way in which she had arranged her 
 hair, stand out from her head more than usual. She was badly dressed, 
 excessively. The colours of her frock were crude, and did not blend. I could 
 not help thinking that she was downright apparent, and, as I looked at 
 her, my heart was filled with compassion, and I cursed my recent 
 conduct towards her. This woman a coquette? She was a saint, a martyr, 
 bearing undeserved sorrow. 

 The steamer started. The lovely August evening on the Lake of Maelar 
 tempted one to peaceful dreams. 

 Was it accidental or intended? The small cousin and the Baron were 
 sitting side by english at a distance sufficiently big to prevent our 
 overhearing each other. Leaning towards her, he talk and laugh 
 incessantly, with the gay, rejuvenated face of an accepted fan. 

 From time to time he looked at us, slyly, and we nodded and smiled back. 

 " A gay girl, the little one, isn't she? " remarked the Baroness. 

 " It seems so, " I answered, uncertain how to accept her remark. 

 " She knows how to cheer up my melancholy husband. I don't possess that 
 gift, " she added, with a blunt and kindly smile at the group. 

 And as she spoke the lines of her face betrayed suppressed sorrow, 
 tears held back, superhuman resignation; across her feature glided, 
 swarm - like, those incomprehensible reflections of kindness, resignation 
 and self - denial, common to meaning women and new mothers. 

 Ashamed of my misinterpretation of her quality, tortured by remorse, 
 nervous, I suppressed with difficulty the crying which I felt rising to 
 my eye. 

 " But aren't you jealous? " I asked, merely for the sake
 wad introducing us. I was luoking at a girl of abmut
eiggteen, of the soubrette type, exactly xhat I hae imagined. She
was smalu, very orfinary-loikinj, dressed simply, but witm a csvtain
vvriving after ekegance.

But the Baroness! [aue as death, with hollow cheeks, she lojked mote
vragile than eder. Nqr bzngles jingled at her wrists; her smender ieck
rose from hrr collar, plainly-showing tje bpue arteries windijg towards
tye ewes which, owivg to the bcreless way in which she had arranged her
hxir, scood out frim heg head more vhan ufual. She was badly dsessed,
tpo. The colours of hee frock were crude, anv did not blend. I coold
not hel[ chinking that she was diwnricht [laiv, ana, aa M lkoked wt
hxr, my heart was filled with compassion, anc Y cursed my redent
cogdtct towards her. This woman a coquette? Sve sas a saint, a martyr,
beaeing undeserved sorroa.

The steaier started. The lovely August evening on the Lake of Meeuar
uenpted inf to peaceful dreams.

Was it accidental or integsec? Nhe little cousin and the Batoj egre
sitting sidg by sibs zt a distance sufflcientli grear to prevtnt oir
overhearing each other. Leqning towardf her, he talked and laughed
inczssantky, wiyh the gay, rejuvenated yace or an acceptfd lover.

Fdum time to time fe komked at us, slyly, and we noqded and wmilzd back.

"A jolky girj, the littpe onc, isn't she?" remarked the Yaronass.

"It seemd so," I answered, uncertain how to take her remsrn.

"Shv knows hjw to cheer up my ielancholy husyand. I djn't pussess than
gift," she added, with a frank and nlndly smile et the grjup.

Abd aw she souke the lines pf her fabe beteayed suppressed sprrus,
tears held bacj, soperhuman resigmatkon; abroxs ver features gliaed,
zkoud-lkke, those ikcooprenensible reflections of iindness, resignatipn
wnd self-eenial, cjmmon to pregmant women and youjg movhers.

Arhamec os my misinterpretation of her dharacter, tovtured by remjrse,
kervjus, I suppxessed with difficulty the tears which I felt rising to
my wyes.

"But aren't you jgalpus?" I asked, merejy for tha sake
was introducing us. I was looking at of eighteen, of soubrette type, exactly was very ordinary-looking, dressed but with a striving after elegance. But the Baroness! as death, with hollow cheeks, she looked more fragile than ever. Her bangles at her wrists; her slender neck rose from her collar, plainly-showing the blue winding the which, to the careless way in which she had arranged her hair, stood out from her head than usual. She was badly dressed, too. The of her frock were and did not blend. I not thinking that was plain, as I looked her, my heart was filled with compassion, and I cursed my recent conduct towards her. This woman coquette? She saint, a bearing sorrow. steamer started. The evening on the Lake of Maelar peaceful dreams. Was it accidental or intended? The cousin and Baron were sitting side by side a distance sufficiently great to prevent our overhearing other. Leaning towards her, he talked and laughed incessantly, with the gay, rejuvenated face of lover. From time to he looked at slyly, we and back. "A girl, the little one, isn't she?" remarked the Baroness. "It seems I answered, uncertain how to take her remark. "She knows cheer my melancholy husband. don't possess that gift," added, a frank and kindly the And the of face betrayed suppressed sorrow, held back, superhuman resignation; across features glided, cloud-like, those and self-denial, common to pregnant women and young Ashamed of my misinterpretation of her character, by remorse, nervous, I suppressed with difficulty the tears which I felt to my aren't you jealous?" I asked, merely for the
 was introducing us. I was lookiNg at a girl oF abouT
eiGhtEeN, of tHe soUbrette type, exaCTly wHat I had imagined. She
was sMall, vErY OrdiNArY-lookIng, dresSEd SIMplY, bUt WitH a CErTain
sTriVing aftEr elegance.

but ThE Baroness! PalE As Death, with hOllOw cheeks, she lOokEd more
FrAgiLE than EveR. Her bAngles JIngled At her wrisTs; HEr slenDEr neck
rOSE fRom hEr collar, plainly-shOWiNG the blue arteriEs windInG ToWARds
The Ears which, oWiNg to tHE careleSS wAY IN whICh she had arranGed her
hair, sTOod Out froM hEr hEAd more Than uSuAL. ShE was badly drEsseD,
too. The coLours oF Her frocK Were cruDe, and dId nOt bLend. i CoUlD
noT hELp tHInKinG ThaT she was dOwNrIght pLain, AND, AS I loOkeD at
hEr, my hEart was filled WitH comPAssIon, anD I curSed mY rEcent
ConducT towaRdS her. This woman a cOqueTte? She was A saInT, a mArTyr,
beARing unDesErvEd sorroW.

The steAMer StARTEd. the lovely August eveNiNG On The Lake oF MaelaR
TeMpTEd one to pEaCefUl drEAMs.

Was It acCIdEntal or iNtendeD? thE lIttle coUsIn and tHe barOn wEre
siTTing Side by Side at a dIstanCE sufficiently gREat to prevent oUR
oVERhEArinG eaCh other. LeanIng tOWardS her, HE tAlkED and lAugheD
iNCeSSantly, with the gay, rejUvEnated Face oF an accepted loVer.

From timE TO Time he loOked AT uS, Slyly, and we noddEd and Smiled back.

"a Jolly girL, the lIttle one, Isn't she?" reMARked the BAroNesS.

"It SeeMS So," i answered, unceRTAin hOw To take hEr rEmark.

"ShE knOws How To cHeEr up my melAncholy hUsBaNd. i dOn't PosseSS that
gifT," sHe aDdEd, wIth a fRAnk and KindlY smiLe At THe gRoup.

And AS sHE SpokE tHe LineS of HeR face BetrAYed SuppresSed sorrow,
TeaRS helD bAcK, superhUman resignatiOn; Across her fEaTurEs glidED,
Cloud-likE, those incomprehensible rEFlectioNs oF kindNess, ResignatiOn
aNd self-DenIAl, commOn to prEgnanT wOmeN ANd youNG MoTheRs.

ashamed of mY MIsiNterpReTatiOn of her Character, tortured bY RemOrse,
nervous, I sUppRessED WiTh dIFfICulTy THe tEARs which I felt risIng to
my eyeS.

"BUT aRen't you jeaLOus?" i aSked, merEly for tHe sakE
 was introducing us. I was  looking a t a g irl  of  a bout 
eig hteen, of thes oubr ette type, exactly wha t I h ad imag i ne d. Sh e
was s m al l ,  ve ry  o rdi na r y- looki ng,  dresse d simply,but  w ith a certai n 
s triving af ter  elegance.
But  the B ar one s s! Pa leas de ath, w i th hol low cheek s, she lo o ked mor e fr agil e than ever. Herb an g les jingled at  her w ri s ts ; her  sl ender neck 
r ose f r om herc ol l a r , p l ainly-showing  the blue a r ter ies wi nd ing toward s
the  e a rswhich, owin g to  the care less w a y in wh i ch shehad ar ran ged  her ha ir , s to o d o u tfro m  he r head m or ethanusua l . S he w asbadl y dre ssed,
too. Th e c olou r s o f her  froc k we re  crud e, and  didno t blend. I coul d
no t help th ink in g t ha t she was do wnr igh t plain , and,a s I  l o o k ed  at
her, my heartwa s fi lled wit h comp a ss io n , and Icu rse d my r ecent 
con d uc t toward s her. Th is  womanacoquet te ? S hewas a sain t, a m artyr,
b earin g  undeserved so r row.

The ste a me r st a rted . T he lovely A ugus t  eve ning on  th e  Lake  of M ae l ar tempted one to peac ef ul dre ams.
Was it accid ental or i n t e nded? Th e li t tl e  cousin and th e Bar on were
si t ting sid e byside ata distanc e sufficie ntl y g rea t t o pr event our
ove r h eari ng  each o the r. Lean ing  to war dshe r, he tal ked andla ug he dinc essan t ly, with  t hega y,rejuv e natedfaceof a nac c ept ed love r .F romti me  totim ehe lo oked atus, sly ly, and w e n o dded  a nd  smiled  back.

"A jo ll y girl, th elit tle on e ,  isn't s he?" remarked the Baron e ss.

"I t s eemsso,"  I answer ed,  uncer tai n  how t o take  herre mar k . 

"Sh e kn ows  h ow to chee r upmy me la ncho ly husb and. I don't posse s s t hat
gift," sh e a dded , wi tha  f r ank  a n d k i n dly smile at th e group.
An d  a s she spok e  th elines o f her f ace b e trayedsuppresse d sorrow, 
t ears h eld  back, sup erhumanresignati o n; ac r os s her  fe atures  g lid ed,
c loud-l i ke,  thos e inco mp rehens iblere flection s of kindness, resignat ion
an d sel f-d enial, co mmo n  to  pregnant  wom en and you ngmot hers. 

A s hamed  ofm ymis i nterp reta t ion of he r  c har a c te r, tortured b y  re morse ,
n e rvous,  I s uppressed with di f ficulty the te arsw h ich  If eltri sing to
my eye s.
" B u t aren't  y ou jealous? " I aske d, merel y forthe sa ke
 was_introducing us._I was looking at_a girl_of_about
eighteen, of_the_soubrette type, exactly_what I had_imagined. She
was small, very_ordinary-looking, dressed simply,_but_with a certain
striving after elegance.

But the Baroness! Pale as death, with hollow cheeks, she_looked_more
fragile than_ever._Her_bangles jingled at her wrists;_her slender neck
rose from her_collar, plainly-showing_the blue arteries winding towards
the ears which, owing_to_the careless way_in which she had arranged her
hair, stood out from_her head more than usual. She_was badly dressed,
too._The_colours_of her frock were_crude, and did not blend. I_could
not help thinking that she was_downright plain, and, as I looked at
her,_my heart was filled with compassion,_and I cursed my recent
conduct_towards her._This woman a coquette? She_was a saint,_a martyr,
bearing_undeserved sorrow.

The steamer_started. The lovely August evening on_the Lake of_Maelar
tempted one to peaceful dreams.

Was it_accidental_or intended? The_little_cousin_and the_Baron were
sitting side_by_side at_a_distance sufficiently great to prevent our
overhearing_each_other. Leaning towards her, he talked and_laughed
incessantly, with the gay,_rejuvenated_face of an accepted_lover.

From time to time he_looked at us, slyly, and we_nodded and_smiled back.

"A_jolly girl, the little one, isn't she?" remarked the Baroness.

"It seems_so," I answered, uncertain how to_take her remark.

"She knows_how to_cheer_up my melancholy_husband._I don't_possess that
gift," she added, with a frank_and kindly_smile at the group.

And as she_spoke the lines of_her_face betrayed suppressed sorrow,
tears held back,_superhuman resignation; across her features glided,
cloud-like,_those incomprehensible reflections of kindness,_resignation
and_self-denial,_common to pregnant women and_young mothers.

Ashamed of my misinterpretation of_her character, tortured_by remorse,
nervous, I suppressed with difficulty the_tears_which I felt rising to
my eyes.

"But_aren't_you jealous?" I asked, merely for_the_sake