He stared at her with a rudeness not at all intentional.
"Heine? Can you read?"
"Yes, Herr."
The other walked along beside her in silence. After all, why not? Why
should he be surprised? From one end of the world to the other printer's
ink was spreading and bringing light. But a goose-girl who read Heine!
"And the music?" he inquired presently.
"That is mine"--with the first sign of diffidence. "Melodies are always
running through my head. Sometimes they make me forget things I ought to
remember."
"Your own music? An impresario will be discovering you some fine day,
and your fortune will be made."
The light irony did not escape her. "I am only a goose-girl."
He felt disarmed. "What is your name?"
"Gretchen."
"What else?"
"Nothing else"--wistfully. "I never knew any father or mother."
"So?" This was easier for the other to understand. "But who taught you
to read?"
"A priest. Once I lived in the mountains, at an inn. He used to come in
evenings, when the snow was not too deep. He taught me to read and
write, and many things besides. I know that Italy has all the works of
art; that France has the most interesting history; that Germany has all
the philosophers, and America all the money," adding a smile. "I should
like to see America.
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