"Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they
will console you. As for me, I can only pity you."

"It is true," he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room,
"I am wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my
sorrow must mean to you, and that I am intruding upon you
something which can not and ought not to interest you at all."

"You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I
regret my inability to calm your distress. If my society and that
of my friends can give you any distraction, if, in short, you
have need of me, no matter in what way, I hope you will realize
how much pleasure it will give me to do anything for you."

"Pardon, pardon," said he; "sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let
me stay here for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my
eyes, so that the idlers in the street may not look upon it as a
curiosity to see a big fellow like me crying. You have made me
very happy by giving me this book. I do not know how I can ever
express my gratitude to you."

"By giving me a little of your friendship," said I, "and by
telling me the cause of your suffering. One feels better while
telling what one suffers."

"You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can
not very well talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and
you will see if I have reason for regretting the poor girl. And
now," he added, rubbing his eyes for the last time, and looking
at himself in the glass, "say that you do not think me too