"You must at least," said Ferdinand, "forgive me one observation; your first appearance, and manner of bringing me here, led me to suppose you a domestic; your language convinces me I was mistaken: Whoever, or whatever you are, if you are unfortunate, as your words seem to imply, I most sincerely pity you; unhappy myself, I can feel for every child of sorrow." The tone, in which those words were uttered, with the look that accompanied them, had a powerful effect upon his auditor. He turned from him, clasped his hands, tears ran in torrents down his furrowed cheeks, and, with a heart-breaking sigh, he flung himself upon a bench almost suffocated with the excess of his emotions.
Ferdinand approached him:—"If I have been, though involuntarily, the cause of exciting those tears, and of recalling ideas that perhaps were faded on the memory, I entreat you to forgive me; indebted to your hospitality and kindness, I am exceedingly concerned to have made a return so unworthy
