But the old man had seen him, and stepping up to him, growled out—“Sir, a word with you.” “Go, wait for me there, upon that bench, Dora,” said her father. And she went timidly. “What,” said the stranger, “is that your daughter? I suppose she is good-for-nothing, but she is a pretty creature, certainly. “As concerns yourself,” he continued, in broken German, “it would, I suppose, be impolite if I should say, ‘My friend, are you a knave or a fool?’ so I will restrain my curiosity, and only ask how you know me?” “Sir,” replied the pastor, “I do not know you.” “Oh, don’t deny it,” said the other; “was it not you who slipped the purse into my hands this morning? You think to plant your grain in fruitful ground. Few here look as ragged as I, but how came you to know of the gold under the rags? But this stupid speculation of yours will never succeed.” “Sir,” interrupted the pastor, with dignity, “what do you think of your fellow men?” “The worst,” said the old man; “they are all as good-for-nothing as I am. But you have thrown your money away, which you seem to need yourself.” “No, I have not thrown it away,” replied the pastor; “you are sick, my friend.” “I am not your friend; I have no friend.” “O, wretched indeed are you if you have no friend; then indeed you have nothing. Yes, you are really ill in body and mind. What I could do to cure the disease of the first I have done, and it is not worth speaking of, but to relieve the last I can bring to my aid, though I am very poor, the consolation of sympathy and—religion. I am the Pastor Seidelman, from R——.” “What! the Pastor Seidelman!” cried the old man; “and that beautiful girl is your daughter?” “She is,” replied the pastor; “you know nothing of us, but let me know enough of you to afford you all the consolation in my power.” So saying, he drew the old man to a seat under the lindens, and sat down. His heart, overflowing with gratitude for the blessing of his renewed health, poured itself out toward the stranger in words so full of sympathy that they seemed half to provoke a spark of kindliness in the stranger’s breast. “By heaven!” he cried, “you are the most endurable man I have yet met with in my wretched life, and ten times better than I. Is it so? Can I find such a thing as a friend?” “It is certain,” said Seidelman; “I am your friend.” “But I am a wretched beggar, crazed by the ingratitude with which my native country, England, has sent me helpless out into the world. I can never reward your kindness—I can give you nothing but my misery. Will you still be my friend?” “Come with us to R——,” cried the pastor, “we are poor, too, but you shall not want loving care, and Theodora shall nurse you.” “Ah, call the girl here,” said the stranger; and Theodora modestly approached.