present in her delirium—­had betrayed her secret to her father.  Full of emotion, he thanked God for her happy escape, and felt no resentment against this poor, misguided child, who had taken refuge from the loneliness of her heart, in his love, as in a haven of shelter.  He only reproached his own want of discernment, as he said to himself:  “Elise had cause to be angry with me and to doubt my affection.  I bore solitude and the constant separation from my daughter because I thought I was working for her, but I forgot that at the same time she was solitary and alone, that she missed a father’s tenderness as I did my child’s love.  I wished to make her rich, and I have only made her poor and wretched.”

He kissed her burning, feverish forehead, he bedewed it with tears, and forgave her, from the bottom of his heart, her misplaced love, her errors and transgressions.  She was with him; she had returned to his heart.  In her despair she had fled to the bosom of her father, and sought support and assistance from him.

The dark clouds had all rolled over, and the heavens were again bright and clear.  Berlin was freed from the enemy.  Elise was convalescent, and the town of Berlin, was preparing for her noblest citizen a banquet of gratitude.

The appointed hour had arrived for Gotzkowsky to receive the deputations, and he betook himself to the hall next the garden.  A thundering hurrah received him.  It proceeded from his workmen, who had come in procession through the garden, and were waving their hats and caps.  They were followed by a multitude of women in black.  This day they had laid aside the tears and griefs for their husbands and sons fallen in battle, in order to thank Gotzkowsky with a smile for the magnanimous kindness with which he had taken their part and secured their future.

Following these women came the poor orphans, with mourning-crape on their arms.  They rushed forward joyously toward Gotzkowsky, stretching out their little hands to him, and, at a word from the head operative, Balthazar, they stretched open their small mouths, and gave out such a shrill and crashing hurrah that the windows rattled, and many a stout workman stopped his ears and felt a ringing in his head.

“One more hurrah!” cried the enthusiastic Balthazar; and “hurrah!” screamed and squeaked the children.

“And now for a third—­”

But Gotzkowsky seized hold of Balthazar’s arm which he was about to move again, and with a look of comical terror, exclaimed:  “But, man, don’t you know that I have further use for my ears to-day?  You deafen me with your screaming.  That’s enough.”

Balthazar struggled himself free from the strong grasp of his master, and placed himself in a theatrical position opposite to him.  He was able this day to indulge in his passion for eloquence, for the workmen had chosen him for their orator, and he had a right to speak.  As he spoke, it could be seen by his sparkling eyes, and by his fiery enthusiasm, that his words had not been learned by rote, but proceeded from his heart.