My teacher had a pretty daughter, named Barbara, who was always present during my lessons, and who sometimes taught me herself with even more exactitude than her father.

A good-looking young man, who likewise took lessons, was courting her, and I soon perceived that she loved him.

This young man called often upon me, and I liked him, especially on account of his reserve, for, although I made him confess his love for Barbara, he always changed the subject, if I mentioned it in our conversation.
I had made up my mind to respect his reserve, and had not alluded to his affection for several days.

But all at once I remarked that he had ceased his visits both to me and to his teacher, and at the same time I observed that the young girl was no longer present at my lessons; I felt some curiosity to know what had happened, although it was not, after all, any concern of mine.
A few days after, as I was returning from church, I met the young man, and reproached him for keeping away from us all.

He told me that great sorrow had befallen him, which had fairly turned his brain, and that he was a prey to the most intense despair.