"My child," said he, carefully wrapping Frederick in the thick covering loaned by the brickmaker, "are you not cold?" "No, M. David." "Now, let us agree upon facts. Your mother must never know what has happened this morning. We will say, shall we not, that, surprised by a beating rain, we obtained this cart with great difficulty? The brickmaker thinks you fell in the water by imprudently venturing too near the slope of the embankment. He has promised me not to noise abroad this accident, the reports of which might frighten your mother. Now, that being agreed upon, we will think of it no more." "What kindness! what generosity! You think of everything. You are right; my mother must not know that you have saved my life at the risk of your own, and yet--" "What your mother ought to know, my dear Frederick, what she ought to see, is that I have kept the promise that I made to her this morning, for time presses." "What promise?" "I promised her to cure you." "Cure me!" and Frederick bowed his head with grief. "Cure me!" "And this cure must be accomplished this morning." "What do you mean?" "I mean that in an hour, upon our arrival at the farm, you must be the Frederick of former times, the glory and pride of your mother." "M. David!" "My child, the moments are numbered, so listen to me. This morning, at the time you disappeared, I said to you, 'I know the cause of your illness.'" "You did say that to me, truly, M. David." "Well, now, the cause is envy!" "Oh, my God!" murmured Frederick, overwhelmed with shame, and trying to slip away from David's embrace. But the latter pressed Frederick all the more tenderly to his heart, and said, quickly: "Lift up your head, my child,--there is no need for shame, envy is an excellent quality." "Envy an excellent quality!" exclaimed Frederick, sitting up and staring at David with bewildered astonishment. "Envy!" repeated he, shuddering. "Ah, monsieur, you do not know what it produces." "Hatred? so much the better." "So much the better! but hatred in its turn--" "Gives birth to vengeance, so much the better still." "M. David," said the young man, falling back on his straw couch with sadness, "you are laughing at me, and yet--" "Laughing at you, poor child!" said David, in a voice full of emotion, as he drew Frederick back to him, and pressed him to his breast with affection. "I laugh at you! do not say that. To me, more than to anyone else, grief is sacred. I laugh at you. You do not know then, at first sight of you, I was filled with compassion, with tenderness, because, you see, Frederick, I had a young brother about your age--" And David's tears flowed, until, choked with emotion, he was obliged to keep silent. Frederick's tears flowed also, and he in his turn embraced David, looking at him with a heart-broken expression, as if he wished to ask pardon for making him weep. David understood him.