She offered him her hand; but as she read in his pale face the agony which tormented his soul, she turned her eyes away and drew her hand back.

“You are angry with me, Bertram,” said she, sobbing.

He pressed his hand convulsively to his heart, as if he would suppress a cry of agony, then held it firmly to his eyes, which were scalded by his hot tears.  He wrestled with his sufferings, but he wrestled like a hero and a man who would not be subjugated, but is determined to conquer.  As his hand glided from his face his eyes were tearless, and nothing was visible in his countenance but an expression of deep earnestness.

“Well, then,” said he, recovering himself, “I accept this sisterly love as a sick man accepts the bitter medicine which he will not cast away lest he commit suicide.  I accept you as my sister, but a sister must at least have confidence in her brother; she must not stand before him like a sealed book whose contents he is ignorant of.  If I am to be your brother, I demand also the rights of a brother.  I demand truth and trust.”

“And who says that I will deny you either?” asked she, quickly.

“You, yourself, Elise; your whole conduct, your shyness and reserve, the manner in which you avoid me, the intentional coldness with which you meet me.  Oh! even at this moment you would withdraw from me, but I will not let you, Elise; I will compel your heart to reveal itself to me.  I will move you with my devotion, my tender anxiety, so that the cruel crust will fall from your gentle and pure heart, and you will become again my candid and confiding sister.  Oh, Elise, have compassion on me! tell me what secret, mysterious charm has suddenly seized you; what wicked, hurtful demon has suddenly converted this bright ingenuous girl into a pale, sad, serious woman.  Have courage and trust me, and let me read as in those happier days.”

Elise looked at his noble countenance with a deep and painful emotion, and met his inquiring look with unabashed eye.

“Well, then,” said she, “I will trust you, Bertram.  I will tell you what I have confided to no human ear.  Know, then, that my heart also has felt the pains which affect yours.  Know that an ardent, hopeless love burnt my soul.”

“A hopeless love?” asked Bertram.

“Yes, hopeless,” said she, firmly; “for never can I hope for my father’s blessing on this love, and never, without it, will I leave my father’s house to follow the man I love.”

“The man you love!” cried Bertram, painfully.  “Does he also then love you, and does he know that you love him?”

She looked at him with astonishment.  “Can one then love without being beloved?” asked she, with the unconscious pride of a young girl.

“You are right,” said Bertram; “I was a fool to ask this question of you.  But why do you doubt your father’s consent?  Why do you not go confidingly to him and confess your love?  But how?  Is this love such that it dare not face the light, and must conceal itself from the eyes of your father?”