'Why are your fingers all thumbs to-day, Fraeulein?' Herr Schliefer would demand gloomily. Jill, who was really fond of the stern old professor, hung her head and blushed guiltily. She had no excuse to offer: her girlish dreams were sacred to her; they came gliding to her through the most intricate passages of the sonata, now with a _staccato_ movement,--brisk, lively,--with fitful energy, now _andante_, then _crescendo, con passione_. Jill's unformed girlish hands strike the chords wildly, angrily. '_Dolce, dolce_,' screams the professor in her ears. The music softens, wanes, and the dreams seem to die away too. 'That will do, Fraeulein: you have not acquitted yourself so badly after all.' And Jill gets off her music-stool reluctant, absent, half awake, and her day-dream broken up into chaos. CHAPTER III CINDERELLA As I opened the schoolroom door a half-forgotten picture of Cinderella came vividly before me. The fire had burnt low; a heap of black ashes lay under the grate; and by the dull red glow I could see Jill's forlorn figure, very indistinctly, as she sat in her favourite attitude on the rug, her arms clasping her knees and her short black locks hanging loosely over her shoulders. She gave a little shrill exclamation of pleasure when she saw me. 'Ah, you dear darling bear, do come and hug me,' she cried, trying to get up in a hurry, but her dress entangled her. 'Where is Fraeulein?' I asked, pushing her back into her place, while I knelt down to manipulate the miserable fire. 'Jill, you look just like Cinderella when the proud sisters drove away to the ball. My dear, were you asleep? Why are you sitting in the dark, with the fire going out, and the lamp unlighted? There, it only wanted to be stirred; we shall have light by which to see other's faces directly,' 'Fraeulein has a headache and has gone to lie down,' returned Jill, and, though I could not see her clearly, I knew at once by her voice that she had been crying; only she would have been furious if I had noticed the fact. 'I hope I am not very wicked, but Fraeulein's headaches are the redeeming points in her character; she has them so often, and then she is obliged to lie down.' 'Of course you have offered to bathe her head?' I asked, a little mischievously, but Jill, who was unusually subdued, took the question in good part. 'Oh yes, and I spoke to her quite civilly; but I suppose she saw the savage gleam of delight in my eyes, for she was as cross as possible, and went away muttering that "Meess Jocelyn had the heart like the flint; if it had been Meess Sara, now--" and then she banged the door, so the pain could not have been so bad after all. It is my belief,' went on Jill, 'that Fraeulein always has a headache when she has a novel to finish. Mamma does not like her to set me an example of novel-reading, so she is obliged to lock herself in her own room.'