“But you were _that_ when I went away,” murmured Pinkie, lifting her eyes to his for just a moment. He took one step towards her, then checked himself. “That was before you had learned _your_ place,” he said. Pinkie’s eyes filled with tears; for as yet her love for Louis was the most real part of her character, and when she yielded to it for a moment, as at present, it made her, for the time being, as real as itself. “My place!” she said, looking at him with the bright drops gemming her lashes; “_my_ place? Oh, Louis, what place have I in the world? I am only a trouble to my father: he thinks himself bound to give me what he calls social advantages, but it’s an awful nuisance to him; he was much more comfortable when I was at school. Frank certainly doesn’t want me or care for me very much. Freddy”—her voice was choked with sobs. “Yes,” said Louis hoarsely, “Freddy loved you, Pinkie.” “But he is dead,” cried the girl passionately, “and now you, Louis—you, whom I thought my—my friend, _you_ turn against me!” She crossed her arms upon the back of the tall chair against which she had been leaning, and, bowing her head upon them, sobbed unrestrainedly. Louis came close to her, so close that his breath stirred her hair as he bent over her, but he did not touch her. “After all,” he said, “I believe your best chance for becoming the woman God meant you to be, would be for me to take you in my arms now, this moment, and carry you off where no one could ever find you again.” Pinkie listened with beating heart and thrilling from head to foot, while, amid her tears, a dainty smile stole out to play unseen about her rosy lips. Of course she had not the very slightest intention of allowing him to do anything of the sort, but it was delicious to hear him talk so. “For I believe you love me, _mein Röslein roth_,” continued the voice above her bent head. “I believe you love me; yet I know that you will never marry me. You are not noble enough, yet, to understand the nobility of labor.” “I certainly don’t understand the nobility of shoemaking,” cried Pinkie, roused to defend herself; “though, of course, it’s a very necessary trade, and one that some people must always follow; but why should _you_ be one of them, Louis?” She laid her hand on his arm and looked beseechingly into his face. “It makes one’s hands black, and the leather smells so horribly,” she urged. Louis turned away abruptly; he had not foreseen this turn of affairs. “And you could be _any_ thing, you know,” continued the temptress. “A doctor, for instance; _that’s_ a noble profession, if you like, Louis; and even if you didn’t get very rich it wouldn’t matter, because,”—she blushed and hung her head. Louis regarded her steadfastly, though his face was bloodless, and his eyes as sad as death. “What would be the good?” he said gently. “If you will not marry the shoemaker, dear, you could never bring yourself to marry the shoemaker’s son.” “I—I—don’t know,” said the girl softly.