s. I accepted it, although I had not contributed any part of the
capital."

"You are mistaken, my son. You forget that you contributed the capital
of your knowledge and genius."

"One cannot live on genius," cried Bertram, impatiently; "and with
all my knowledge I might have starved, if you had not taken me by the
hand."

Gotzkowsky would have denied this, but Bertram continued still more
pressingly: "Father, if I were, indeed, your son, could you then deny
me the right of falling and being ruined with you? Can you deny your
son the right of dividing with you what is his?"

"No!" cried Gotzkowsky, "from my son I could demand the sacrifice, but
it is not only a question of earthly possessions, it is a question
of my most sacred spiritual good, it is the honor of my name. Had I a
son, I would exact of him that he should follow me unto death, so that
the honor of my name might be saved."

"Well, then, let me be, indeed, your son. Give me your daughter!"

Gotzkowsky stepped back in astonishment and gazed at Bertram's noble,
excited countenance. "Ah!" cried he, "I thank you, Bertram; you are a
noble man! I understand you. You have found out the sorrow which
gnaws most painfully at my heart; that Elise, by my failure, becomes a
beggar. You wish most nobly to assist her and protect her from want."

"No, father, I desire her for her own sake--because I love her! I
would wish to be your son, in order to have the right to give up all
for you, and to work for you. During your whole life you have done
so much for others; now grant me the privilege of doing something for
you. Give me your daughter; let me be your son."

Gotzkowsky was silent for some minutes, then looked at Bertram sadly
and sorrowfully. "You know that this has always been the wish of my
heart. But what I have longed for, for so many years, that I must now
refuse. I dare not drag you down in my misfortune, and even if I were
weak enough to yield to your request, I cannot sacrifice the happiness
of my daughter to my welfare. Do you believe, Bertram, that Elise
loves you?"

"She is kind to me, and is anxious for my welfare--that is enough,"
said Bertram, sadly. "I have learned for many a long year to renounce
all claim to her love."

"But if she loves another? I fear her heart is but too true, and has
not forgotten the trifler who destroyed her happiness. Ah! when I
think of this man, my heart trembles with anger and grief. In the hour
of death I could fo