was toward the place where he had left the
child. He was gone.

"_Verschwunden!_" cried he, striding off to the sleeping-room, whither I
followed him. The little lad had been undressed and put to bed in a
small crib, and was sleeping serenely.

"That's Frau Schmidt, who can't do with children and nurse-maids," said
I, laughing.

"It's very kind of her," said he, as he touched the child's cheek
slightly with his little finger, and then, without another word,
returned to the other room, and we sat down to our long-delayed supper.

"What on earth made you spend more than twelve hours without food?" he
asked me, laying down his knife and fork, and looking at me.

"I'll tell you some time perhaps, not now," said I, for there had begun
to dawn upon my mind, like a sun-ray, the idea that life held an
interest for me--two interests--a friend and a child. To a miserable,
lonely wretch like me, the idea was divine.

CHAPTER XVI.

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower.
We will grieve not--rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been, must ever be.
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering!
In the faith that looks through death--
In years, that bring the philosophic mind.
WORDSWORTH.

From that October afternoon I was a man saved from myself. Courvoisier
had said, in answer to my earnest entreaties about joining housekeeping:
"We will try--you may not like it, and if so, remember you are at
liberty to withdraw when you will." The answer contented me, because I
knew that I should not try to withdraw.

Our friendship progressed by such quiet, imperceptible degrees, each one
knotting the past more closely and inextricably with the present, that I
could by no means relate them if I wished it. But I do not wish it. I
only know, and am content with it, that it has fallen to my lot to be
blessed with that most precious of all earthly possessions, the
"friend" that "sticketh closer than a brother." Our union has grown and
remained not merely "_fest und treu_," but immovable, unshakable.

There was first the child. He was two years old; a strange, weird,
silent child, very beautiful--as the son of his father could scarcely
fail to be--but with a different kind of beauty. How still he was, and
how patient! Not a fretful child, not given to crying or complaint; fond
of resting in one