I can never complain to you again. I go on worrying you with my confidences in a sinful manner, while you keep your own grief to yourself. My troublesome candour knows no bounds; every drop of the fount of my sorrow I pour out before you, and--I must hope that that is the very reason why you are so silent as to your own circumstances. But I begin to feel that the best remedy for our sufferings is sympathy with those of others. My only sorrow today is that you hide your grief from my sympathy. Are you really too proud to let me know, or do you refrain from giving me back the painful impression I made on you with my complaints, because you were unable to assist me?