so pitilessly trampled under
foot, in the character of a supplicant for aid, perhaps a beggar!

Besides, Wolff was his son!

Whatever wrong the father had done her she must forget it, and the task
was not difficult; for now--she felt it--no matter from what motive, he
honestly desired to unite her to his son. If her lover now led her
through the door adorned with the huge, showy escutcheon, she would no
longer come as a person unwillingly tolerated, but as a welcome
helper-perhaps as the saviour of the imperilled house. Of the women of
the Eysvogel family she forbade herself to think.

How touching the handsome, aristocratic, grey-haired man seemed to her in
his helpless weakness! If her father would only receive him, he would
find it no easier than she to deny him the compassion he so greatly
needed.

She knocked at the lonely mourner's door and was admitted.

He was sitting, with his head bowed on his hands, opposite to the large
portrait of her dead mother in her bridal robes. The dusk of the
gathering twilight concealed the picture, but he had doubtless gazed long
at the lovely features, and still beheld them with his mental vision.

Els was received with a mournful greeting; but when Herr Ernst heard what
had brought her to him, he fiercely commanded her to tell Herr Casper
that he would have nothing more to do with him.

Els interceded for the unfortunate man, begging, pleading, and assuring
her father that she would never give up Wolff. The happiness of her whole
life was centred in him and his love. If he refused the Eysvogels the aid
besought by the old merchant who, in his humility, seemed a different
man----

Here her father indignantly broke in, ordering her to disturb him no
longer. But now the heritage of his own nature asserted itself in Els
and, with an outburst of indignation, she pointed to the picture of her
mother, whose kind heart certainly could not have endured to see a
broken-hearted man, on whose rescue the happiness of her own child
depended, turned from her door like an importunate beggar.

At this the man whose locks had long been grey sprang from his chair with
the agility of a youth, exclaiming in vehement excitement: "To embitter
the hours devoted to the most sacred grief is genuine Eysvogel
selfishness. Everything for themselves! What do they care for others? I
except your Wolff; let the future decide what concerns him and you. I
will stand by you. But to hope for happiness and