"She kept nothing from me; not even that she has of late come in contact with a bad man (I repeat, Miss Sophie, that I am not speaking of Mr. Stein)--with a man who has cheated her most egregiously, and who wished to hand her over to a notorious scapegrace. But that is such a mean, low story that I would rather not speak of it, even if I had not promised Marguerite never to mention the person in question to any one, whoever it be. And now," concluded Bemperlein, taking both of Sophie's hands in his own, "what do you say, now you know all?" Sophie was somewhat embarrassed by the sudden question. She had formed a picture of Marguerite from casual remarks made by Helen, Oswald, and her betrothed, which was by no means flattering for the young lady; and even Bemperlein's account was not calculated to remove her prejudice completely. She was pained to have to hurt the feelings of the poor man, whose kind face was turned towards her with an excited, anxious expression, as if life and death depended on her decision, and yet she could and would not prevaricate, and an answer she must give. She assumed, therefore, a charming air of wisdom, shaking her head gently and thoughtfully, "Love is a curious thing, Bemperly. I have often reflected on it since the time that I learned to know Franz and to love him. There are sensations which are very praiseworthy in themselves, but they are not love, and we must be careful not to mistake them for love. And the nobler the heart the more easily it falls into the danger of committing such an error, just as the most trustful people are always the readiest to take false money instead of good money. I, for instance, never failed to find a false coin in my purse upon returning from market, if there was a false piece in the whole crowd. Now, there is no sensation which looks so much like love, and which so readily deceives a noble heart, as sympathy. Might it not be, Bemperly"--and here the young lady put her hand upon Bemperlein's hand--"that, as your interest for Miss Marguerite first arose from sympathy, it may to this moment not be the genuine love, but only sympathy?" Bemperlein's face had been growing longer with every word of this long exposition. He had expected a very different welcome for his news here. Almost despairing, he asked, therefore, "But, Miss Sophie, how do you distinguish sympathy from love? Is not the love of our neighbor, the purest form of love, identical with sympathy?" "The love of the neighbor?" replied Sophie; "yes! but not that love of which we are speaking--the love which we must feel if we wish to marry somebody--the love, for instance, which I feel for Franz, and which Franz feels for me. That is something very different, quite different,"--and the young philosopher nodded thoughtfully her wise head. "But what is it then?" cried Bemperlein, desperately. "How can we find out if we really love?"