licked her icy hands, and with their honest
faces warmed her frozen bosom!

She broke from them all, and sank over him
on his litter, with both her loving hands upon
the heart that stood still.

ACT IV.

THE CLOCK-LOCK.

The pleasant scene was Neuchâtel; the
pleasant month was April; the pleasant place was
a notary's office; the pleasant person in it
was the notary: a rosy, hearty, handsome old
man, chief notary of Neuchâtel, known far and
wide in the canton as Maître Voigt. Professionally
and personally, the notary was a popular
citizen. His innumerable kindnesses and his
innumerable oddities had for years made him
one of the recognised public characters of the
pleasant Swiss town. His long brown frock-
coat and his black skull-cap were among the
institutions of the place; and he carried a snuff-
box which, in point of size, was popularly
believed to be without a parallel in Europe.

There was another person in the notary's
office, not so pleasant as the notary. This
was Obenreizer.

An oddly pastoral kind of office it was, and
one that would never have answered in England.
It stood in a neat back yard, fenced off from a
pretty flower-garden. Goats browsed in the
doorway, and a cow was within half-a-dozen
feet of keeping company with the clerk. Maître
Voigt's room was a bright and varnished little
room, with panelled walls, like a toy-chamber.
According to the seasons of the year, roses,
sunflowers, hollyhocks, peeped in at the
windows. Maître Voigt's bees hummed through
the office all the summer, in at this window
and out at that, taking it frequently in their
day's work, as if honey were to be made from
Maître Voigt's sweet disposition. A large
musical box on the chimney-piece, often trilled
away at the Overture to Fra Diavolo, or a
Selection from William Tell, with a chirruping
liveliness that had to be stopped by force on
the entrance of a client, and irrepressibly broke
out again the moment his back was turned.

''Courage, courage, my good fellow!" said
Maître Voigt, patting Obenreizer on the knee,
in a fatherly and comforting way. "You will
begin a new life to-morrow morning in my
office here."

Obenreizer dressed in mourning, and
subdued in manner lifted his hand, with a white
handkerchief in it, to the region of his heart.
"The gratitude is here," he said. "But the
words to express it are not here."

"Ta-ta-ta! Don't talk to me about gratitude!"
said Maître Voigt. "I hate to see a man
oppressed. I see you oppressed, and I hold
out my hand to you by instinct. Besides, I am
not too old yet, to remember my young days.
Your father sent me my first client. (It was on
a question of half an acre of vineyard that
seldom bore any grapes.) Do I owe nothing
to your father's son? I owe him a debt of
friendly obligation, and I pay it to you. That's
rather neatly expressed, I think," added Maître
Voigt, in high good humour with himself.
"Permit me to reward my own merit with a
pinch of snuff!"

Obenreizer dropped his eyes to the ground, as
though he were not even worthy to see the
notary take snuff.

"Do me one last favour, sir," he said, when he
raised his eyes. "Do not act on impulse. Thus
far, you have only a general knowledge of my
position. Hear the case for and against me, in
its details, before you take me into your office.
Let my claim on your benevolence be recognised
by your sound reason as well as by your excellent
heart. In that case, I may hold up my head
against the bitterest of my enemies, and build
myself a new reputation on the ruins of the
character I have lost."

"As you will," said Maître Voigt. "You
speak well, my son. You will be a fine lawyer
one of these days."

"The details are not many," pursued
Obenreizer. "My troubles begin with the accidental
death of my late travelling companion, my lost
dear friend, Mr. Vendale."

"Mr. Vendale," repeated the notary. "Just
so. I have heard and read of the name, several
times within these two months. The name of
the unfortunate English gentleman who was
killed on the Simplon. When you got that
scar upon your cheek and neck."

"—From my own knife," said Obenreizer,
touching what must have been an ugly gash at
the time of its infliction.

"From your own knife," assented the notary,
"and in trying to save him. Good, good, good.
That was very good. Vendale. Yes. I have
several times, lately, thought it droll that I
should once have had a client of that name."
"But the world, sir," returned Obenreizer,
is so small!" Nevertheless he made a mental
note that the notary had once had a client of
that name.

"As I was saying, sir, the death of that dear
travelling comrade begins my troubles. What
follows? I save myself. I go down to Milan.
I am received with coldness by Defresnier and
Company. Shortly afterwards, I am discharged
by Defresnier and Company. Why? They
give no reason why. I ask, do they assail
my honour? No answer. I ask, what is the
imputation against me? No answer. I ask,
where are their proofs against me? No answer.
I ask, what am I to think? The reply is, 'M.
Obenreizer is free to think what he will. What
M. Obenreizer thinks, is of no importance to
Defresnier and Company.' And that is all."

"Perfectly. That is all," assented the notary,
taking a large pinch of snuff.

"But is that enough, sir?"

"That is not enough," said Maître Voigt.
The House of Defresnier are my fellow-townsmen
—much respected, much esteemed—but the
House of Defresnier must not silently destroy a
man's character. You can rebut assertion.
But how can you rebut silence?"

"Your sense of justice, my dear patron,"
answered Obenreizer, "states in a word the