"My God! my God!" cried Frederick, with enthusiasm, his eyes filled with tears, "I cannot tell what change has come over me. The darkness of night has been turned to day,--the day of the past, and even brighter than the past. Oh, my mother! my mother!" "Let us go on," continued David, unwilling to leave the least doubt in Frederick's mind; "does the envy you feel when you hear the ancient name of Pont Brillant manifest itself by a violent hatred of aristocratic tradition, always springing up, sometimes feudal, and sometimes among the citizenship? Exalt this envy, my child. Jean Jacques, in protesting against the inequality of material conditions, was sublimely envious, and our fathers, in destroying the privileges of the monarchy, were heroically, immortally envious." "Oh!" exclaimed Frederick, "how my heart beats at your noble words, M. David! What a revelation! What was killing me, I realise now, was a cowardly, barren envy. Envy for me was indolence, despair, death. Envy ought to be action, hope, and life. In my impotent rage I only knew how to curse myself, others, and my own nonentity. Envy ought to give me the desire and strength to come out of my obscurity, and I will come out of it." "Good! good! dear, brave child!" exclaimed David, in his turn, pressing Frederick to his breast. "Oh, I was certain I could cure you! An easy task with a generous nature like yours, so long cherished by the most admirable of mothers. Tender and excellent heart!" added he, no longer able to restrain his tears. "This morning, as you were about to drown, your last cry was, 'My mother! my mother!' You are born again to hope and life, and your first cry is still, 'My mother! my mother!'" "I owe you my life," murmured Frederick, responding to the ardent embrace of his preceptor. "I owe you the life of my body as well as the life of my soul, M. David." "Frederick, my child," said David, with inexpressible emotion, "call me your friend. That name I deserve now, do I not? It will replace the sweet and cherished name I can never hear again,--my brother!" "Oh, my friend!" cried Frederick, with exaltation, "and you will see me worthy of the name of friend." A moment of silence succeeded this outburst of sentiment, as David and Frederick held each other in close embrace. The preceptor was the first to speak. "Now, my dear child, I must appeal to your candour on a last and important matter. It may be severe, even relentless to me, but not unjust. Tell me, if--" David could not finish. Entirely absorbed in their conversation, the preceptor and his pupil had not noticed the route, until the cart suddenly stopped a short distance from the farm gate. Marie Bastien, greatly distressed at the prolonged absence of her son, had been standing long under the rustic porch of her house, eagerly looking for his return.