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.

Where was she then?

Like her father, Gotzkowsky’s daughter sat alone in her room—­her gaze, as his, fixed upon empty space.  The sad, melancholy expression of her face, scarcely tinged with a delicate blush, contrasted strangely with her splendid dress, her mournful look with the full wreath of roses which adorned her hair.

Elise was the daughter of the wealthiest man in Berlin, the world proclaimed her the handsomest maiden, and yet there she sat solitary in her beautiful chamber, her eyes clouded with tears.  Of a sudden she drew a golden case from her bosom and pressed it with deep feeling to her lips.  Looking timidly at the door she seemed to listen; convinced that no one approached, she pressed a hidden spring of the medallion; the golden cover flew open and disclosed the portrait of a handsome man in Russian uniform.

The young girl contemplated this portrait with a strange mixture of delight and melancholy, and then, completely overpowered by its aspect, she approached it to her lips.  “Feodor!” murmured she, so softly that it sounded almost like a sigh, and stretching out the hand which held the medallion, in order to be able better to contemplate the picture, she continued—­

“Feodor, why did we meet, to be separated forever again?  Why did not Fate allow me to be born as a poor serf upon one of thy estates, giving to thee the right to possess me, to me the sweet duty of loving thee?  O Heaven, why art thou an enemy of my country, or why am I a German?  Men call me happy; they envy me my father’s wealth; they know not how wretched and forsaken I am.”

She bowed her head upon her breast and wept bitterly.  Suddenly steps were heard quite close to her door.  She started, and concealed the medallion quickly in her breast.  “My father,” murmured she, and drying her tears she arose to open the door.  She was right, it was her father.  He held out his hand to her.  She took it and pressed it to her lips respectfully, but she did not see the look of almost passionate tenderness with which he regarded her, for she had cast down her eyes and did not dare to look at him.

“I have come, Elise, to lead you to our garden festival.  You will go with me, my child?”

“I am ready,” said she, taking her hat and shawl.

“But why in such a hurry, my child?” asked her father.  “Let us leave these good people yet a little while to themselves.  We will still be in time to witness their games.  I would like to stay a quarter of an hour with you, Elise.”

Without answering, she rolled an arm-chair to the window, and laid aside her hat and shawl.