Bertha and the old man looked sorrowfully at each other, participating in the grief of their friend, although they did not comprehend it. After some moments' silence Arnold raised his head. It is impossible to depict the bitter sadness of his pale and mild countenance. A tear came into Bertha's eye, and with a charming ingenuousness she took her father's hand to wipe it. "You suffer," said the old man to Arnold. "Why is not our friendship of an older date, for then you might alleviate your troubles by revealing them?" "I have often thought of this, but shame has prevented me," said Arnold, in a dejected tone. "Shame!" exclaimed Raimond with surprise. "Do not misunderstand the word, my friend," said Arnold. "Thank God, I have done nothing at which I need blush! I am only ashamed of my weakness--ashamed of being so sensitive of recollections, which ought to be equally despised and forgotten." "Fear nothing: we understand--we pity you. My poor girl has often wept here, too, over recollections which, like yours, ought to be equally despised and forgotten. Come, Arnold," said the engraver, "if I desire your confidence, it is because we also may, on our side, have some sad avowals to make to you." "You, too! you have been unhappy?" said Arnold. "Very unhappy," replied the old man; "but, thank God, those bad days are, I trust, passed! It seems to me that you have brought us happiness; not only have you saved my life, but you have also made that life pleasant to me, as, indeed, for a very long time I have not met with any one whose mind and taste so assimilated with my own. I do not know what may be the influence of your lucky star, but since we have known you, my poor Bertha herself is less sad, her domestic sorrows seem diminished; in fact, you have been to us the happy augury of a quiet, tranquil existence." "Oh, what you say, my dear father, is quite true," said Bertha. "Ah, Monsieur Arnold, if you knew how much he loves you; and when I am alone with him he speaks of you in such terms!" "That is quite true," said the old man: "if you could hear us you would be sure that you have no friends more sincere. Bertha is so grateful to you for having saved my life, that after me she loves you better than any one in the world!" "Oh yes, poor dear father!" said Bertha, embracing the old man. M. de Hansfeld listened to Pierre Raimond with profound veneration. This frank and honest language was as new as flattering to him. Must he not have inspired a perfect confidence in Pierre Raimond, if he did not hesitate from speaking thus to him even in his daughter's presence? Bertha herself, so far from seeming confused or embarrassed, seemed to confirm what her father said, her brow beaming brightly with candour and sincerity.