workmen, you shall
at least not starve, Father Gotzkowsky."

Gotzkowsky looked at him with eyes glistening with pleasure. "I thank
you, my friends," said he, deeply moved; "and if I do not accept your
offer you must not think that I do not appreciate its greatness or its
beauty. Who can say that I am poor when you love me, my children?"

At that moment, a carriage stopped at the door. Bertram had brought it
to convey them to their new and modest residence.

"Are you going, then, to leave us forever?" said Balthazar mournfully.

"No, my children, I remain among you, in the midst of you. I am only
going to exchange this large house for a smaller one."

"Come," cried Balthazar, "come, my friends, we will escort our father,
Gotzkowsky, to his new house. The town of Berlin shall see that only
rich people are ungrateful, and that the poor never forget their
benefactor and their friend. Come, let us take out the horses. We will
draw Father Gotzkowsky through the streets."

The crowd answered with a thundering hurrah; and with busy haste they
proceeded to the work. The horses were unharnessed, and twelve of the
most powerful workmen crowded around the pole. In vain did Gotzkowsky
beg them to refrain, not to make him an object of general curiosity.
But the people paid no heed to his request--it was a necessity to
their hearts to give him a public proof of their love. Almost by force
they raised him into the carriage, and compelled Bertram and Elise,
who had mixed with the crowd for the purpose of escaping attention,
to take their seats beside him. And now the procession advanced. Women
and workmen went on before, rejoicing and jumping about merrily at the
side of the carriage; and when they met other workmen, these latter
stopped and waved their hats, and greeted Gotzkowsky, calling him
the great factory-lord, the father of his workmen, the benefactor of
Berlin. Especially when the procession came to the low houses and
the poor cottages, the small dusty windows were thrown open, and
sun-browned faces looked out, and toil-hardened hands greeted and
waved.

The forsaken, the ruined Gotzkowsky celebrated this day a splendid
triumph. The jubilant voice that thus did him homage was that of the
people--and the voice of the people is the voice of God!

[Footnote 1: With these words Gotzkowsky closes his autobiography.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE AUCTION.

All was now over--t