Julie. Being poor must be an infinite misfortune.

John. [With deep pain.] Oh, Miss Julie. Oh! A dog can lie on the Count’s sofa, a horse can be petted by a lady’s hand, on its muzzle, but a boy! [ With a change of tone.] Yes, yes; a man of individuality here and there may have enough stuff in him to come to the top, but how often is that the case? What do you think I did then?—I jumped into the mill-stream, clothes and all, but was fished out and given a thrashing. But the next Sunday, when father and all of the people at home went to grandmother’s, I managed to work it that I stayed at home, and I then had a wash with soap and warm water, put on my Sunday clothes and went to church, where I could get a sight of you. I saw you and went home determined to die, but I wanted to die in a fine and agreeable way, without pain, and I then got the idea that it was dangerous to sleep under a lilac bush. We had one which at that time was in full bloom. I picked all the blooms which it had and then lay down in the oat bin. Have you ever noticed how smooth the oats are? As soft to the hand as human skin. I then shut the lid, and at last went to sleep and woke up really very ill; but I didn’t die, as you see. I don’t know what I really wanted, there was no earthly possibility of winning you. But you were a proof for me of the utter hopelessness of escaping from the circle in which I’d been born.

Julie. You tell a story charmingly, don’t you knew. Have you been to school?

John. A little, but I’ve read a lot of novels, and been a lot to the theater. Besides, I’ve heard refined people talk, and I’ve learned most from them.

Julie. Do you listen, then, to what we say?

John. Yes, that’s right; and I’ve picked up a great deal when I’ve sat on the coachman’s box or been rowing the boat. I once heard you, Miss, and a young lady friend of yours.