Oh, she longed to. Such a piece of fortune would never come her way again, never, never. To be rich, a baroness, to have all the splendours of the universe laid at her feet. Where outside of fairytales do such marvels occur? If only there hadn't been one thing about him. But what that one thing was she could not determine. It wasn't his eyes, no matter how dagger-like they looked. It wasn't the bristly hair on his temples either, nor the grating voice of command. Now she knew! It was the two dewlaps that fell from chin to throat. Yes, that's what it was. No use trying to dissemble with herself and pretend she did not see them. She shuddered at the mere thought of them. None the less, the sisters had called him a _handsome_ man, and rich, aristocratic women ran after him. It would be sheer folly to refuse. And wasn't he the noblest, the best, the most exalted of men? Wasn't he like God Himself? She imagined herself living and breathing for him. She would sit at his feet and learn. She would flutter about him like a gay bird. No, she could not imagine a person being gay in his presence. But a person could be poetic. You could languish away into unknown remotenesses, gaze at the evening clouds, present a noble, pale picture, up to which strange young men would look with consuming passion, and be honoured by not a glance in return--she could do this, because her life would be dedicated to the one who was to be her protector, friend, and father, who would elevate her to heights from which otherwise a ray would never have fallen upon her. "I will, I will!" life within her cried. "Dear St. Joseph, I will!" St. Joseph raised a threatening finger. But St. Joseph always raised a threatening finger. He couldn't help himself. That was the way the sculptor had made him. The sight of that finger, however, was vexatious and not calculated to help a poor human being out of a dilemma. The next day she received a letter from Mr. Pieper, asking her to call at his office on a matter of great importance. Hot and cold waves shivered up and down her back. "He knows," she said to herself. Mrs. Asmussen was greatly displeased when Lilly asked for permission to go out. "You get flowers and expensive gifts, and you want to leave the library every day. I very much fear me I shall have to offer up a daily prayer for you again." But Lilly showed her the guardian's letter, and she yielded. Lilly had not seen her guardian since the day, a year and a half before, when she had left the hospital tottering from weakness. Timidity had prevented her from availing herself of his invitation to visit him again. Besides, there had been no occasion to. Nobody had inquired for her. From time to time a tall, dry man, whom she recognised as Mr. Pieper's managing clerk, had called on Mrs. Asmussen and held a short conversation with her. This was the one sign that the man to whose protection Lilly had been consigned thought of her.