another at the little round table. After a long pause, the former in a low and fearful tone thus resumed the discourse: “I ought in the outset, my dear Rhenfried, to remind you of a great calamity which happened to you, though I am also aware, that so singular a period of your excellent life, should, if possible, be wrapped in an impenetrable veil of oblivion; but it is all of no use now. I loved your lost daughter who disappeared ten years ago, and if she did not return my affection, there was a time when she seemed to receive it with a degree of sweet complacency and friendship. The cause of the beloved girl’s loss, so inexpressibly bitter to my feelings, remains still as unaccountable to me as I suppose it yet does to you.”
The old man made a sign for him to say no more, and seemed to be absorbed in deep meditation within himself. At length he said, “No! that dreadful occurrence is not such a complete mystery as you seem to think, though more severely felt, my dear sir, than any similar affliction that perhaps ever befell me. Yet, when I take all into consideration—your known integrity; your present sincerity; your kind attachment to my grand-daughter, and the confidence she seems to feel in you; I feel I can no longer withhold mine; I feel that you fully merit it, and I will state every circumstance I know relating to the fate of my poor unfortunate girl.
