When Gotzkowsky saw this, he felt ashamed that he had once smiled lovingly on these men, had confided in them, and believed in their assurances of friendship.  He rose to leave, feeling himself refreshed and strengthened, for his depression and grief had left him.  Never had he walked the streets more proudly than on the day when he returned from the auction to his dark, lowly dwelling.  Never had he looked upon mankind with greater pity or more bitter scorn.  And yet it pained him to reenter this dismal, quiet house, and to force himself back into the ennui and indolence of his inactive life.  It was such a sensitive, burning pain, so, in the fulness of his strength and manhood to be condemned to do nothing more than drag on a weary existence—­to sleep, to eat, and to dream of the past!  And yet he would repeat to himself, he was strong and active to work and create; and nevertheless, he was condemned to idleness, to live by the favor and toil of others, even if these others were his children.

But they worked for him with so much pleasure and so much love!  Bertram had accepted the situation of book-keeper in a large factory, and his salary was sufficient to support the three.  To be sure, they had to manage carefully, and provide scantily enough.  But Elise was active and notable; though as the spoilt child of wealth, she had, indeed, been able to learn nothing of those minor offices of life which are called by women “housekeeping.”  Still the instinct of her sex had enabled her soon to acquire this knowledge, and in a short time she became mistress of it.  It was, indeed, a pleasant sight to see Elise, with the same quiet cheerfulness, acting at one moment the part of cook in the kitchen, at another setting her little chamber to rights with busy hands, and making amends in cleanliness and neatness for what was wanting in elegance and beauty.  True, she was altered, but never since she had been.  Bertram’s wife had her brow been darkened or her eye dimmed.  Her face was always bright and clear:  for her husband, when he returned home, she had always a smile of welcome, a cordial greeting—­never a word of complaint or of mourning over the privations she was obliged to undergo, or the wealth she had lost.  Elise felt rich—­for she loved her husband; not with that ardent, consuming passion which she had once felt, and which had been the cause of so much disappointment and so many tears; but with that gentle, affectionate flame which never dies out, but is constantly supplied and nourished by esteem and appreciation.

Bertram was no longer her brother; he was her beloved, her friend, her counsellor, and comforter, above all.  With him she was always certain to be understood and appreciated, to find comfort and help.  As on a rock, she could now rely on the noble heart of one who was at the same time so firm, and yet so soft in loving, that he had never doubted her, never turned away from her.  Her whole heart was given up to