eir antagonistic souls was
destroyed. Gotzkowsky was no longer the tender father, easily appeased
by a word, but the patriot injured in his holiest right, his most
delicate sense of honor. Elise was no longer the humble, penitent
daughter, but a bride threatened with the loss of her lover.

"You would, then, never give your consent?" asked she, passionately.
"But if this war were ended, if Russia were no longer the enemy of
Germany; if--"

"Russia remains ever the enemy of Germany, even if she does not appear
against her in the open field. It is the antagonism of despotic power
against culture and civilization. Never can the free German be the
friend of the barbarous Sclavonian. Let us hear nothing more of
this--you know my mind; I cannot change it, even if you should,
for that reason, doubt my love. True love does not consist only in
granting, but still more in denying."

Elise stood with bowed head, and murmured some low, unintelligible
words. Gotzkowsky felt that it would be better for both to break off
this conversation before it had reached a point of bitterness and
irritation. At the same time he felt that, after so much excitement,
his body needed rest. He, therefore, approached his daughter and
extended his hand toward her for a friendly farewell. Elise seized
it, and pressed it with passionate feeling to her lips. He then turned
round and traversed the room on the way to his bedchamber.

Elise looked after him with painful longing, which increased with
each step he took. As he was in the act of leaving the room she rushed
after him, and uttered in a tone of gentle pleading, the single word,
"Father!"

Gotzkowsky felt the innermost chord of his heart touched. He turned
round and opened his arms to her. With a loud cry of joy she threw
herself on his breast, and rested there for a moment in happy,
self-forgetting delight. They looked at one another, and smilingly
bade each other good-by. Again Gotzkowsky turned his steps toward his
bedroom. And now he was gone; she saw him no more. Father and daughter
were separated.

But Elise felt an unutterable grief in her heart, a boundless terror
seized her. It seemed as if she could not leave her father; as if it
would be a disgrace for her, so secretly, like a criminal, to sneak
out of her father's house, were it even to follow her lover to the
altar. She felt as if she must call her father back, cling to his
knees, and implore him to save her, to save her from he