thought, "Perhaps Elise will think of me
when I am no longer near her. Perchance absence may warm her heart,
and she may forget the brother, some day to welcome the husband."

Returning after a year's absence, strengthened and restored to health,
he found Elise as he had left her. She received him with the same
quiet, calm look with which she had bid him farewell. She placed
her hand as coolly and as friendly in his, and although she inquired
cordially and sympathizingly after his welfare, Bertram still felt
that her heart and her inmost soul had not part in her questioning.

Elise had not altered--but how little was Gotzkowsky like himself!
Where was the ardent man, powerful of will, whom Bertram had embraced
at his departure? where was his clear, ringing voice, his proud
bearing, his energy, his burning eloquence--what had become of all
these? What diabolical, dismal influence had succeeded in breaking
this iron will, in subduing this vital power?

Bertram felt that a deep grief was corroding Gotzkowsky's life--a
grief whose destructive influence was greater because he avoided
the expression of it, and sought no relief nor consolation by
communicating it to others. "He shall, at least, speak to me," said
Bertram. "I will compel him to make me the confidant of his grief, and
to lighten his heart by imparting a portion of his burden to mine."
With this determination he had entered Gotzkowsky's room; he now
stood opposite to him, and with gentle sympathy looked into his pale,
sorrow-worn countenance.

But Gotzkowsky avoided his eye. He seemed entirely occupied with his
papers, and turned them over again and again. Bertram could bear it
no longer; he hastened to him, and taking his hand pressed it
affectionately to his lips. "My father," said he, "forgive me; but
when I look at you, I am possessed by a vague fear which I cannot
explain to myself. You know that I love you as my father, and for that
reason can read your thoughts. Gotzkowsky, since my return I have read
much care and sorrow in your face."

"Have you?" said Gotzkowsky, painfully; "yes, yes, sorrow does not
write in hieroglyphics. It is a writing which he who runs can read."

"You confess, then, that you have sorrow, and yet you hide it from
me. You do not let me share your cares. Have I deserved that of you,
father?"

Gotzkowsky arose and paced the room, thoughtful and excited. For
the first time he felt that the sympathy of a loving heart did good.