the festival
would continue in the large garden immediately adjacent to the house,
to which they at once repaired to enjoy cheerful games and steaming
coffee.

Bertram, Gotzkowsky's head book-keeper, had been commissioned by him
to lead the company, consisting of more than two hundred persons, into
the garden, where Gotzkowsky would follow them, having first gone in
search of his daughter.

With lively conversation and hearty laugh the people retired, the
halls were emptied, and now the deep silence of these state-apartments
was only interrupted by the gentle ticking of the large clock which
stood over the sofa on its handsomely ornamented stand.

When Gotzkowsky found himself at last alone, he breathed as if
relieved. The quiet seemed to do him good. He sank down into one
of the large chairs covered with gold-embroidered velvet, and
gazed earnestly and thoughtfully before him. The expression of his
countenance was anxious, and his large dark eyes were not as clear and
brilliant as usual.

John Gotzkowsky was still a handsome man, despite his fifty years; his
noble intellectual countenance, his tall proud figure, his full
black hair, which, contrary to the custom of that period, he wore
unpowdered, made an imposing and at the same time pleasing impression.

And certainly it was not because of his personal appearance that
Gotzkowsky, notwithstanding the early death of his wife, had never
contracted a second marriage, but had preferred to remain a solitary
widower. Nor did this occur from indifference or coldness of heart,
but solely from the love for that little, helpless, love-needing
being, whose birth had cost his young wife her life, to whom he had
vowed at the bedside of her dead mother to stand in stead of
that mother, and never to make her bend under the harsh rule of a
step-mother. Gotzkowsky had faithfully fulfilled his vow; he had
concentrated all his love on his daughter, who under his careful
supervision had increased in strength and beauty, so that with the
pride and joy of a father he now styled her the handsomest jewel of
his house.

Where then was this daughter whom he loved so dearly? Why was she not
near him to smile away the wrinkles from his brow, to drive with light
chat serious and gloomy thoughts from his mind? She it was, doubtless,
whom his wandering glance sought in these vast, silent rooms; and
finding her not, and yearning in vain for her sweet smiles, her rosy
cheeks, he sighed.