ed and won by deeds of generosity.

But Bertram, who called Gotzkowsky father, had never ventured to call
Gotzkowsky's daughter sister. Brought up together, they had in their
childhood shared their games, their childish joys and sorrows with one
another; he had been a protecting brother to her, she an affectionate
sister to him. But ever since Bertram had returned from a journey of
three years, which Gotzkowsky had caused him to make, all this had
changed. Elise, whom he had left almost a child, he found on his
return a blooming young woman, and a feeling of joyous emotion flashed
through him as he stood blushing before her; while she, perfectly
collected, with a quiet look bade him welcome.

Under the charm of this look he had lived several weeks of rapture
and yet of anxiety. He soon felt that he loved this young girl
passionately, but he also felt that she returned his passion with
the lukewarm affection of a friend or a sister, and that she had no
suspicion of the tumult and pain, the joy and ecstasy which filled his
breast. And yet he had a right to strive for the prize of her love;
and if he raised his eyes to the daughter of his benefactor, it was
not presumption, it was Gotzkowsky himself who emboldened him to do
so. He had said to him, "Seek to win the love of my daughter, and I
will cheerfully bid you welcome as my son, for I know that in your
hands Elise's happiness is safe."

Thus he had the consent of her father, but Elise's love was wanting,
and how could he ever deserve this love, how win this heart which
shone as bright and clear, as hard and cold as rock crystal? Of
what avail was it that he worked indefatigably in the service of his
benefactor? how did it help him that the money, which Gotzkowsky had
given to him as a boy, had borne rich interest and made him a man of
means, and even, if he chose, of independence? What did it profit
him that all men loved him, if this one being, by whom he so ardently
longed to be loved, always remained the same, unchanged toward him,
always affectionate and friendly, always open and candid, never
abashed, never blushing, never casting her eyes down before him?

"It must at last be decided," thought Bertram, as he sat next Elise;
"I must at last know whether she returns my love, or whether that be
true which I have heard whispered since my return. I must at least
have certainty, even if it annihilates all my wishes."

At this moment there sounded near him merry sh