lly
in her bosom, in order to carry it unnoticed to her father's room. He
would not be there--for two days he had not been at home; she could,
therefore, venture to go there without fear of meeting him. She felt
as if she would not be able to bear his gaze--the full, bright look of
his eye.

Carefully and softly, with the secret fear of meeting Bertram, whose
sad, reproachful looks she dreaded even more, perhaps, than the eye
of her father, she crept along the corridor, and finally reached the
antechamber, breathing more freely, and glad to have met no one. Every
thing here was quiet and silent; her father, therefore, had not yet
returned, and she was quite safe from any surprise by him.

She now entered his private room, and crossing this, was in the act of
opening the desk of his writing-table in order to deposit the letter
therein, when she heard the door of the antechamber open. It was too
late for flight, and she had only time to conceal the letter in her
bosom, when the door of the room itself was opened.

It was her father who now entered the apartment. Speechless and
motionless they both stood, confounded at this unexpected meeting,
each waiting for a word of greeting of reconciliation from the other.
But however earnestly their hearts yearned toward each other, their
lips remained silent, and their looks avoided one another.

"She shuns me. This is my reception after so many toilsome days of
absence," thought Gotzkowsky, and his heart was full of sadness and
sorrow.

"He will not look at me, his eye avoids me, he has not yet forgiven
me," thought Elise, as she regarded her father's pale, care-worn
countenance. "No, he does not wish to see me. For the last time,
therefore, I will show him obedience, and leave the room." Sadly and
softly, with her looks cast on the ground, she took her way to the
door on the opposite side.

Gotzkowsky followed her with his eyes. If she had only ventured to
raise her looks once more to him, she would have perceived all his
love, all the forgiving affection of a father, in his face. But she
did not, and Gotzkowsky said to himself, in the bitterness of his
heart, "Why should I speak to her?--she would only misunderstand me. I
will lie down and sleep, to forget my cares and my sorrows. I will not
speak to her, for I am exhausted, and tired to death. I must have rest
and composure, to be able to come to an understanding with her."

And yet he regarded her with longing looks a