Gotzkowsky had returned to the etagere.  He took the silver-oaken wreath, the civic crown presented to him by the city of Berlin, and looked at it with a bitter, scornful smile.  “I earned this,” he said, half aloud—­“I will take it with me to the grave.  They shall find my corpse crowned with this wreath, and when they turn away in shame, the broken bankrupt, John Gotzkowsky, will enjoy his last triumph over a degenerate world.”  And as if in a dream, in the feverish delirium of grief, he placed the wreath on his brow, then for a moment stood with his head bent in deep thought.

It was a strange picture to see his proud, tall figure, his pale, nervous face, crowned with the silver wreath, and opposite to him, looking through the curtains, his daughter, whose glowing eyes were eagerly watching her father.

And now Gotzkowsky seized the silver pitcher, raised it on high—­it had already touched his lips—­but suddenly he staggered back.  A dearly-loved voice had called his name.  Ah, it was the voice of his daughter, whom he had forgotten in the bitterness of his grief.  He had believed his heart dead to all feeling, but love still lived in him, and love called him back to life.  Like an electric shock it flew through his whole frame.

He put the pitcher down, and covering his face with his hands, cried, “Oh, unnatural father!  I forgot my child!”

Behind him stood Elise, praying to God eagerly and fervently.  She wished to appear quite composed, quite unsuspicious, that her father might not have even an inkling of her knowledge of his dark design.  Her voice dare not tremble, her eye must remain clear and calm, and a smile play about her lips, which yet quivered with the anxious prayers she had just offered to God.  “My father!” she said, in a low but quiet voice—­“my father, I come to beg your blessing.  And here is the myrtle wreath with which you were to adorn me.”

Gotzkowsky still kept his face covered, but his whole frame trembled.  “I thank Thee, O my God!  I thank Thee! the voice of my child has saved me.”  And turning round suddenly, he stretched out both arms toward her, exclaiming aloud:  “Elise, my child, come to my heart, and comfort your father.”

Elise uttered a cry of joy, rushed into his arms, and nestled close to his heart.  She whispered in his ear words of fervent love, of warmest affection.  They fell on Gotzkowsky’s heart like soothing balm; they forced tears of mingled joy and repentance from his eyes.

A long while did they remain locked in each other’s arms.  Their lips were silent, but their hearts spoke, and they understood each other without words.  Then Elise raised herself from her father’s embrace, and, again offering him the myrtle-wreath, said with a smile, “And now, my father, bless your daughter.”

“I will,” said Gotzkowsky, drying his eyes.  “Yes, from my whole soul will I bless you.  But where is the bridegroom?”