"He's the very one!" Lilly exclaimed, eager to cast a ray of her own confidence into his heart. "When somebody is like you, with the mark of greatness on his face, then the world lies at his feet." She described a semicircle with her right hand, taking in the entire plain, its green bushes and silvery streams and the city with its wreath of swelling gardens lying embedded in the fields like a lark's nest in a meadow. Lilly felt as if she were showing him a small copy of his future realm. He nodded several times in the dejected consciousness of knowing better than she what the world is like. "Dear me, it's hard," he observed, "very, very hard." She wanted whether or no to convince him of his own ability to conquer, and growing warmer and warmer continued with her peroration. "If only I could express what I know and feel. If only I could give you some of my own assurance. Look at me, poor thing that I am. I have no father or mother, and no friends. If at least I could have stayed at school and graduated. But here I am, without a vocation, without money, without clothes for the winter--not even a decent pair of shoes." She stuck out the worn tips of her old boots, which until now she had kept carefully hidden. "I don't get as much to eat as I need either; and if I come home too late to-day, I shall be whipped. Yet I know that happiness is lying in wait for me. It is here already--in every breeze that blows my way, in every sunbeam that smiles at me--the whole world is happiness--the whole world is music--everything's a Song of Songs--everything's a Song of Songs!" She turned from him with an impetuous movement, to keep him from seeing how she was quivering all over. Down in the city the chimes began to ring. St. Mary, once the cathedral, now the chief Protestant church, came first with its three resounding clangs. St. George uttered a clear third E-G--on high festivals it added a paternal, rumbling C. More bells followed. St. Anne's thin tinkling joined in--modest, yet to be distinguished the instant it began. There was a secret whispering and calling in it: "We know each other, we love each other, and St. Joseph says 'Good morning.'" Lilly's friend seemed to have used the period of her silence in order to win back his spiritual balance. With the little air of didactic dignity that he liked to assume when he felt he had the advantage in a situation, he began: "I am almost inclined to think we don't quite understand each other. I was at great pains to make a careful study of the problems of life, and so I see somewhat deeper into things than you. I'm up to snuff about the so-called illusions of youth. I know what men are worth, and I should advise you to be a little more cautious about what you do." "What do you mean?" she asked, astounded. He gave her a sidewise smile with an air of mingled superiority and uncertainty. "Well, beauty carries certain dangers in its train."