"I know--I loved her, too," said Rebecca gently. He turned upon her almost angrily. "You can never know. I was her lover; you were only her friend." "'The heart knoweth its own bitterness'," quoted the girl softly. But Irving impatiently shook off the pitying hand she had dropped upon his arm, "What do you know of sorrow?" he demanded. "You have everything your heart can desire; wealth, youth, beauty, friends--I have no one." "And with all my gifts I am more unhappy than you," Rebecca persisted. "For I have not even the memory of a happy friendship and love like yours to bring me comfort now." For a moment Irving forgot his own grief. "I do not understand," he murmured. She smiled sadly. "You will not repeat this, I know," she told him quietly. "Only my own family know, but you have been such a close friend of my brother's that my secret is safe with you. I have loved--and been loved--by a young man who was all my parents could desire for me. But last month he went away and I shall never see him again." For the first time that evening Irving's eyes met hers. The girl's glance was sad but very brave. "I do not understand," he repeated. Again she smiled sadly. "You know how liberal my family have always been in their religious opinions. We have always mingled freely with non-Jews; Matilda, although not a Jewess, was my dearest friend. In fact, a number of my relatives have married outside our faith." She broke off a moment. "The young man was not a Jew," she said slowly. "He loved his religion as well as I did mine. It was very hard to have him go away." She leaned toward Washington Irving and lightly touched the two little books she had given him. "You have lost your joy, too," she said, and now her clear tones trembled a little. "Neither of us can ever be very happy again. We will both be so lonely sometimes, that I think we must learn to be very good friends, don't you?" And Irving pressed her hand in silence. It was a more portly Irving, the Irving with the bright eyes and kindly smile which we have learned to associate with the author of "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," that waited for Rebecca Gratz in the drawing room of her father's home about ten years later. Since the death of Matilda Hoffman, he had grown to be a very close friend of the Gratz family, never failing when in Philadelphia to visit their home where he might "roost," as he put it, in the large, comfortable guest room. He had never referred to his intimate conversation with Rebecca when she had tried to comfort him after Matilda's death; yet their mutual grief and confidence had created a strong bond between them, and when Irving returned from an extended trip abroad, he welcomed the opportunity of going to Philadelphia to see his latest book through the press. For he longed to visit Miss Gratz, who, so the home letters had informed him, had grown to be a famous beauty and belle during his absence.