st the gratification 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 Fraeulein'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