not that letter
which you read so often something to do with your being here?"

She fixed me with her serious eyes till I believe I reddened far more
than she; and I hastened to pour out, incoherently enough, my conviction
that she had some secret care, and my desire to help her if she was in
any trouble.

"You cannot help me," said she, a little softened by my explanation,
though some shade of resentment at having been thus surreptitiously
watched yet lingered in her manner. "It is an old story; a sorrow gone
by, past, at least it ought to be, only sometimes I am foolish"--her
tones were softening now--"and it is punishment enough that you have
seen my folly."

"If you had a brother here, Thekla, you would let him give you his
sympathy if he could not give you his help, and you would not blame
yourself if you had shown him your sorrow, should you? I tell you again,
let me be as a brother to you."

"In the first place, sir"--this "sir" was to mark the distinction
between me and the imaginary brother--"I should have been ashamed to
have shown even a brother my sorrow, which is also my reproach and my
disgrace." These were strong words; and I suppose my face showed that I
attributed to them a still stronger meaning than they warranted; but
_honi soit qui mal y pense_--for she went on dropping her eyes and
speaking hurriedly.

"My shame and my reproach is this: I have loved a man who has not loved
me"--she grasped her hands together till the fingers made deep white
dents in the rosy flesh--"and I can't make out whether he ever did, or
whether he did once and is changed now; if only he did once love me, I
could forgive myself."

With hasty, trembling hands she began to rearrange the tisane and
medicines for the night on the little table at my bed-side. But, having
got thus far, I was determined to persevere.

"Thekla," said I, "tell me all about it, as you would to your mother, if
she were alive. There are often misunderstandings which, never set to
rights, make the misery and desolation of a life-time."

She did not speak at first. Then she pulled out the letter, and said, in
a quiet, hopeless tone of voice:--

"You can read German writing? Read that, and see if I have any reason
for misunderstanding."

The letter was signed "Franz Weber," and dated from some small town in
Switzerland--I forget what--about a month previous to the time when I
read it. It began with acknowledging the receipt of some money which