“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 had evidently been requested by the writer, and for which the thanks were almost fulsome; and then, by the quietest transition in the world, he went on to consult her as to the desirability of his marrying some girl in the place from which he wrote, saying that this Anna Somebody was only eighteen and very pretty, and her father a well-to-do shopkeeper, and adding, with coarse coxcombry, his belief that he was not indifferent to the maiden herself. He wound up by saying that, if this marriage did take place, he should certainly repay the various sums of money which Thekla had lent him at different times. I was some time in making out all this. Thekla held the candle for me to read it; held it patiently and steadily, not speaking a word till I had folded up the letter again, and given it back to her. Then our eyes met.