“Sir,” interrupted the pastor, with dignity, “what do you think of your fellow men?”
“The worst,” said the old man; “they are all as good-for-nothing as I am. But you have thrown your money away, which you seem to need yourself.”
“No, I have not thrown it away,” replied the pastor; “you are sick, my friend.”
“I am not your friend; I have no friend.”
“O, wretched indeed are you if you have no friend; then indeed you have nothing. Yes, you are really ill in body and mind. What I could do to cure the disease of the first I have done, and it is not worth speaking of, but to relieve the last I can bring to my aid, though I am very poor, the consolation of sympathy and—religion. I am the Pastor Seidelman, from R——.”
“What! the Pastor Seidelman!” cried the old man; “and that beautiful girl is your daughter?”
“She is,” replied the pastor; “you know nothing of us, but let me know enough of you to afford you all the consolation in my power.”
So saying, he drew the old man to a seat under the lindens, and sat down. His heart, overflowing with gratitude for the blessing of his renewed health, poured itself out toward the stranger in words so full of sympathy that they seemed half to provoke a spark of kindliness in the stranger’s breast.
“By heaven!” he cried, “you are the most endurable man I have yet met with in my wretched life, and ten times better than I. Is it so? Can I find such a thing as a friend?”
“It is certain,” said Seidelman; “I am your friend.”