he has come to ask me of you
for his wife. Oh, forgive him, and grant your blessing to a love which
till now has been the anguish of my life, but which hereafter will be
its chief happiness!"

Blushing and with maiden modesty she nestled in her father's breast.
Gotzkowsky felt himself paralyzed with terror. He pressed his child's
head warmly to his breast, saying to himself, "And this, too, my God!
you try me sorely. This is the greatest sacrifice you have demanded of
me yet; but my pride is gone. This offering, too, will I make."

"Well, my father, you do not answer?" asked Elise, still leaning
on his breast. "All is right, is it not? and you will give us your
fatherly blessing, and forgive Feodor the errors of former years, and
receive him as a son?"

Gotzkowsky, with his eyes still raised to heaven, moved his lips in
silent prayer. At last, after a long, painful pause, he said solemnly:
"Well, let it be so; I give my consent."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, and, amidst tears of unalloyed delight,
kissed him, as smiling, and often interrupted by her own deep emotion,
she narrated her meeting with Feodor, Lodoiska's death, and the letter
she had written to her. "Oh, how delightful this hour would be,"
continued she, after finishing her narrative, "if I could only remain
with you! Love bids me go, and yet it keeps me here! I have promised
Feodor to go with him, but I did it in my haste, seeing only him and
listening only to his prayers. Now I see you, my father, and it seems
to me as if I could not leave you to-day."

"To-day!" cried Gotzkowsky, and a ray of joy shone from his face. He
arose, and, with folded arms, paced the room. His soul was full of
gratitude to God, to whom he had prayed in his despair. Was this not
a sign that God was with him, even if men forsook him?--that God had
pity on him, even if all others were pitiless. This day his child
wished to leave him, to enter on a brilliant destiny. He had,
therefore, no longer any need to be anxious about her fate; and, as
she was going to leave at once, he would be spared the torture of
having her as a witness to his disgrace and degradation. He took her
to his breast, and kissed her with heartfelt fervor. "Farewell, my
child, my only happiness; you wish to leave me. I will be alone, but
I will have time to think of and pray for you." He then cast her from
him almost roughly, for he felt as if his grief would unman him. "Go,"
he cried, "your bridegroom is wa