of my curiosity about this letter seemed to me a duty that I owed to myself. As long as my fidgety inquisitiveness remained ungratified, I felt as if I could not get well. But to do myself justice, it was more than inquisitiveness. Thekla had tended me with the gentle, thoughtful care of a sister, in the midst of her busy life. I could often hear the Fräulein’s sharp voice outside blaming her for something that had gone wrong; but I never heard much from Thekla in reply. Her name was called in various tones by different people, more frequently than I could count, as if her services were in perpetual requisition, yet I was never neglected, or even long uncared-for. The doctor was kind and attentive; my host friendly and really generous; his sister subdued her acerbity of manner when in my room, but Thekla was the one of all to whom I owed my comforts, if not my life. If I could do anything to smooth her path (and a little money goes a great way in these primitive parts of Germany), how willingly would I give it? So one night I began—she was no longer needed to watch by my bedside, but she was arranging my room before leaving me for the night— “Thekla,” said I, “you don’t belong to Heppenheim, do you?” She looked at me, and reddened a little. “No. Why do you ask?” “You have been so good to me that I cannot help wanting to know more about you. I must needs feel interested in one who has been by my side through my illness as you have. Where do your friends live? Are your parents alive?” All this time I was driving at the letter. “I was born at Altenahr. My father is an innkeeper there. He owns the ‘Golden Stag.’ My mother is dead, and he has married again, and has many children.” “And your stepmother is unkind to you,” said I, jumping to a conclusion. “Who said so?” asked she, with a shade of indignation in her tone. “She is a right good woman, and makes my father a good wife.” “Then why are you here living so far from home?” Now the look came back to her face which I had seen upon it during the night hours when I had watched her by stealth; a dimming of the grave frankness of her eyes, a light quiver at the corners of her mouth. But all she said was, “It was better.” Somehow, I persisted with the wilfulness of an invalid. I am half ashamed of it now. “But why better, Thekla? Was there——” How should I put it? I stopped a little, and then rushed blindfold at my object: “Has 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.