“Thou art become a spirit of the night,” said Sophie. “Where hast thou been? Thou art not going up into the loft again to-night, thou strange girl? Had it been Wilhelm, Thostrup, or myself who had undertaken such a thing, it would have been quite natural; but thou”—
“Am I, then, so very different to you all?” inquired Louise. “I should resemble my sister less than even Mr. Thostrup resembles her. You two are so very different!”
“In our views, in our impulses, we very much resemble each other!” said Sophie.
“He is certainly not happy,” exclaimed Louise. “We can read it in his eyes.”
“Yes, but it is precisely that which makes him interesting!” said Sophie; “he is thus a handsome shadow-piece in everyday life.”
“Thou speakest about it so calmly,” said Louise, and bent over her sister, “I would almost believe that it was love.”
“Love!” exclaimed Sophie, raising herself up in bed, for now Louise’s words had become interesting to her; “whom dost thou think that he loves?”
“Thyself,” replied Louise, and seized her sister’s hand.
“Perhaps?” returned Sophie. “I also made fun of him! It certainly went on better when our cousin was here. Poor Thostrup!”
“And thou, Sophie,” inquired Louise, “dost thou return his love?”