The old man looked up from his occupation, and listened earnestly. Presently the door was opened, and a young man entered the apartment. The paleness of his face appeared striking in contrast with his dark hair; his expression was that of deep melancholy, and his form was even more emaciated than that of his companion.
“Did you hear the hour strike?” asked the old man.
“I heard it; it was midnight.”
“Indeed!”
“You had better go to rest.”
“To sleep, mean you? I do not need it. I have been reading this legacy of my father. Would that you had had such a father, poor Theodore! What is the New year?”
“Eighty-four.”
“Eighty-four! when it was thirty-seven—we will not speak of that!”
“You always talk thus,” said the young man. “Am I never to know who you are?”
“You might have asked that the day we first met; the day I found you—a madman—who had placed the deadly weapon against his own breast. I pulled it away; I said to you, Live! even if life hath nothing but wo to offer! Live, if thou canst believe and hope; if not, bid defiance to thy fate; but live!”