get the better of her bashfulness, “I thought of nothing else.”
And, saying these words, Rosa looked so exceedingly pretty, that for the second time Cornelius placed his forehead and lips against the wire-grating; of course, we must presume with the laudable desire to thank the young lady.
Rosa, however, drew back as before.
“In truth,” she said, with that coquetry which somehow or other is in the heart of every young girl, “I have often been sorry that I am not able to read, but never so much so, as when your housekeeper brought me your letter. I kept the paper in my hands, which spoke to other people, and which was dumb to poor stupid me.”
“So, you have often regretted not being able to read,” said Cornelius. “I should just like to know on what occasions.”
“Troth,” said she, laughing, “to read all the letters which were written to me.”
“Oh, you received letters, Rosa?”
“By hundreds!”
“But who wrote to you?”
“Who! why, in the first place, all the students who passed over the Buitenhof, all the officers who went to parade, all the clerks, and even the merchants who saw me at my little window.”
“And what did you do with all these notes, my dear Rosa?”
“Formerly,” she answered, “I got some friend to read them to me, which was capital fun; but since a certain time—well, what use is it to attend to all this nonsense? since a certain time I have burnt them.”
“Since a certain time!” exclaimed Cornelius, with a look beaming with love and joy.
