Now she sat often again under the boughs in her father's garden and span. When Clement came to her, her poor eyes gleamed strangely. He was ever kind to her, sat down on the bench beside her, and caressed her hair and cheeks as in the old times. She begged him once not to be so silent. When he told her about the world and the new things he had learned each day about it, it did not make her feel envious. But when he did not come at all she was so lonely. She never put him in mind, by a single word, of the promise he had given her one evening never to leave her; she had long ago renounced it. She seemed doubly dear to him, he had no longer to be guarded before her. His heart overflowed, and he talked for hours about the sun and moon and stars, and the flowers, and the trees; and, above all, how their parents and she herself looked. She trembled with happiness in her inmost heart, when he told her innocently, that she was prettier than all the other girls in the village. Then he told her how graceful she was, and that she had such a pretty head, and dark, soft eyebrows. He had seen himself, too, in a looking-glass, but he was not nearly so pretty; he did not want to be, and it was all the same to him, as long as he grew up to be a clever man. Men appeared generally not to be so pretty as women. She did not understand all of this, but this much she did understand, that she pleased him, and what could she desire more? They never returned to this subject; but he was indefatigable in describing the beautiful world to her. When he came not, she thought over his words, and grew almost jealous of this world which robbed her of him; gradually this feeling of enmity grew stronger, and, at last, became more powerful than her pleasure at his happiness. Above all things she hated the sun, for she knew that he was the brightest of all, and in her obscure notions, _bright_ and beautiful were one and the same thing. Nothing discomposed her more than his bursts of admiration over the setting sun, when he was with her of an evening. He had never spoken of _her_ in such words, and why did he forget her so utterly over this scene that he never saw the tears that her strange jealous sorrow forced into her eyes? But still heavier grew her heart, when the rector, as soon as the doctor permitted it, began anew the education of his son. Previous to his cure, Clement had passed the greater part of his day in practising music; religious instruction, history, mathematics, and a little Latin, were all which formerly had appeared necessary or possible; and Mary had been permitted to share his lessons, which, after all, included only the most necessary information. Now, when the boy exhibited the strongest inclination towards natural science, he was set seriously to work, and prepared for one of the higher classes of the town school.