"Sit down and spin," he said impatiently. "I am ashamed to see you stand
there, and a woman never looks so well as when she spins. Sit down, and I
will eat the good things you have brought me. But I cannot if you stand
and look."

"I beg your pardon. I did not know," she said, ashamed lest she should
have seemed rude to him; and she drew out her wheel under the light of
the lattice, and sat down to it, and began to disentangle the threads.

It was a pretty picture--the low, square casement; the frame of ivy, the
pink and white of the climbing sweet-peas: the girl's head; the cool, wet
leaves: the old wooden spinning-wheel, that purred like a sleepy cat.

"I want to paint you as Gretchen, only it will be a shame." he said.

"Who is Gretchen?"

"You shall read of her by-and-by. And you live here all by yourself?"

"Since Antoine died--yes."

"And are never dull?"

"I have no time, and I do not think I would be if I had time--there is so
much to think of, and one never can understand."

"But you must be very brave and laborious to do all your work yourself.
Is it possible a child like you can spin, and wash, and bake, and garden,
and do everything?"