Pierre Raimond religiously preserved this curious specimen of the savage eloquence of that terrible period, which, however blood-stained, was still not wholly without glory. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the engraver remained firm to the Republican Utopia only as far as its views were generous and patriotic. Honest though unpolished--just and conscientious--the only fault to be found with Pierre Raimond was his somewhat overstrained notions as to the moral distinctions which, in his opinion, existed between the rich and the poor. And, if he carried the pride of poverty too far, he might fairly be excused on the score of his noble and unaffected disinterestedness. Acting upon these principles, he had refused the proffered hand of the daughter of a rich engraver, because he loved the mother of Bertha, who was poor as himself. After thirty years of incessant application, hard labour, and economy, Pierre Raimond had succeeded in amassing the sum of 25,000 francs, which he destined for the future provision of his daughter; the bankruptcy of the lawyer in whose hands he had placed the money deprived him of the dear gratification of seeing his child independent, and left him no help but to redouble his exertions, in order to bestow on his daughter, then quite young, some profession, by which she might honestly earn her bread. From this slight sketch the reader may form some notion of the intense eagerness with which Pierre Raimond awaited his beloved Bertha. At length his watchful ears were gladdened with the sound of a vehicle stopping on the quay, then a quick, light, and well-known step sounded up the staircase. A few seconds more, and Bertha, rushing into the room, threw herself into her father's arms, who, tenderly embracing her, cried, in tones of deep emotion,-- "At length, then, my child, I embrace you once again." "Dear, dear father!" replied Bertha, weeping tears of joy. The tender parent himself disencumbered his child of her bonnet and cloak, which he carefully placed on his bed; then, seating her in an arm-chair beside the fire, he took her chilled hands in his. "Poor dear!" said he, "you are quite frozen,--there, try and warm yourself." "Ah, dear father, you spoil me, as you ever did." Without replying to her remark, the old man gazed with intense delight on the sweet face before him, then murmured, "Once more,--once more, after six long weary months of absence." "Dearest father, the time, then, has seemed to you very long." "But you have been quite happy, my child, have you not?" "Oh, yes--quite--quite." "Perfectly happy?" "Yes, indeed, as much so as ever." "And the thoughts of your felicity have armed me with courage to endure your absence. And your husband is still kind, good, and devoted to you?" "Certainly, my dear father."