us go; I have a horror of
this house, and this splendor sickens me."

"Yes! let us go," said Elise, throwing her arms around her father's
neck. They went out into the street. How refreshing did the cool air
seem to them, and how soft and sweet did the calm blue sky look
down upon them! Gotzkowsky gazed up at it. He did not perceive the
multitude of people which stood before his own door, or rather he did
not wish to see them, because he took them for a portion of the idle,
curious populace, which follows misfortune everywhere, and finds a
spectacle for the amusement of its _ennui_ in the suffering of others.

But for this once, Gotzkowsky was mistaken; it was indeed only poor
people who were standing in the street, but their countenances bore
the marks of sympathy, and their looks were sad. They had heard of
his misfortunes, and had hastened hither, not from curiosity, but from
interest in him. They were only factory-hands, to whom Gotzkowsky had
been benefactor, friend, and adviser; they were the poor whom he had
supported and comforted, who now stood before his house, to bid him a
last farewell. To be sure, they could render him no assistance--they
had no money, no treasures--but they brought their love with their
tears.

At the head of the workmen stood Balthazar, with his young wife, and
although his eyes were dimmed with tears, he still recognized his
master who had done him so much kindness; and although his breast was
stifled with grief, yet he controlled himself, and cried out, "Long
live Gotzkowsky, our father!"

"Hurrah for Gotzkowsky! Long may he live!" cried the crowd, not
jubilantly, but in a sad tone, half smothered by tears.

Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed with joy, and with a grateful smile
he stretched out his hand to Balthazar. "I thank you, my friend," he
said; "you have often shouted in compliment to me, but never has it
given me so much pleasure as to-day."

"Never has it been done more cordially and sincerely," said Balthazar,
pressing Gotzkowsky's hand to his lips. "You have always been a father
and a friend to us, and we have often been sorry that you were so rich
and powerful that we could not show you how dear you were to us. Now
that you are no longer rich, we can prove that we love you, for we can
work for you. We have come to an agreement among ourselves. Each of
us will give one working-day in the week, and the proceeds shall go to
you, and as there are one hundred and seventy of us