"That I do not know; but I do know that stories like that of the Marquis d'Harville and his wife occur almost daily in actual life." Oswald made no reply; he recollected what he had heard about the relations between Melitta and her husband, and how the latter had now been for seven years the victim of incurable insanity. A faint suspicion of the painful scenes that must have preceded the actual crisis, the fearful catastrophe, overcame him; he regretted having touched unconsciously the curtain that hid so dark a family drama. But at the same time he was filled with deep, unspeakable sympathy for the charming woman who was condemned to lead a lonely, mournful life in this green wilderness, in spite of all her youth and beauty. What were to her youth and beauty and wealth without love! and did she obtain that love which she deserved so well, and for which she yearned so ardently, she whose gentle, longing eyes betrayed an unfathomable depth of tenderness and passion? Sympathy is the first-born brother of the sweet sister Love. While Oswald was pitying the fate of the fair lady, he felt how a spring of painfully sweet feelings gushed forth warm from his heart and filled it to overflowing. And if old classic love was born in the foam of the waves, romantic modern love not unfrequently prefers the soft, perfumed air of a luxuriant garden full of sweet flowers and fragrant foliage. Voluptuous shadows dwelt in the cozy bowers; the afternoon sun lay dreamily upon the green lawns; the birds were singing joyously in the dense crowns of mighty trees, butterflies were dancing merrily above the sun-drunk forests of bright flowers.