“Come, my daughter,” said the pastor, as with much kind dignity he kissed her forehead.  “You too, my friend, and my gentle Ebba (speaking to M. de Vermondans and his other daughter), are welcome.  You too, Monsieur,” said he, turning to Ireneus, “though I have not before had the honor to see you, I welcome as a friend.  You are all welcome to the hearthside of the poor priest, and may the festival of to-day be to us a commemoration of the past, and a happier tie for the future.”

The old man took his guests into his own room, in which there was an Inconsiderable library, a few models of utensils for agricultural purposes, testifying to both his taste and his occupation.  He sat on a sofa, which debility in his limbs made necessary to him, and placed his guests beside him.  Alete, who could not sit quiet long, soon arose and took Eric to the window.  While, as was the custom with her, she tested the patient character of her husband that was to be, the old man conversed with Ireneus, who from the very first had been attracted by his venerable and pleasing face.

“From these instruments of labor collected around you, I see,” said Ireneus, “that you have contrived a sure method of making your solitude active.  Ebba has already told me how usefully you employ your time.”

“Usefully,” replied M. Guldberg, with sincere modesty.  “Alas! let us act usefully as we may, how much weakness is there in our will, and forgetfulness in our best resolutions.  If by the grace of God we accomplish any good, what is that in comparison with what we should do.  I love toil, but I can make no merit of it.  In my youth it was a necessity.  The son of a laborer, who earned with his own hands the money which supported me at school, I was compelled, at every risk, to repay him for his paternal tenderness by my success.  Gradually labor became a habit, and then a quasi dogma of religion.  I thought it my duty, as soon as possible, to release him from the necessity of sacrifice.  I feel myself attracted by a brotherly sympathy to all who toil.  I look with respect on the sweaty brow and toil-stained hand.  God himself prescribed labor to us as a law, and his infinite goodness unites with obedience to it the enjoyment of much happiness.  Certainly no person with a heart can repress sympathy at the sight of the poor laborer, who is busy from morning to night to earn his moderate wages, who braves every weather to sow and harvest his crop.  This laborer, however, is often happier than the majority of the rich, who, as they pass, look on him with pity.  He has done his duty.  When his task is done he sits contented at his humble hearth.  The sparkling wood, the bread on his table, he has earned himself.  He educates his child by his own exertions, and as he seeks his bed, may say he has done his duty.  He is ignorant of the troubles which fill the hearts of the opulent.  Ceaseless toil to him is a cuirass warding off stormy passions.  The door of his soul is shut to dark chimeras, to the mad fancies which people the area of the palace, and on his rude pillow he enjoys a peaceful repose, which the lord of his village often asks for in vain.  When I thus praise the efficaciousness of toil, I do not speak only of manual labor.  The labor of thought is often most painful, and its fruits infinitely more valuable.”