could defy the forgetfulness of friends.

Chance reunited us once more after an interval of twelve years. It so
happened that I had inherited a small estate in his province, and when
I went there to dispose of it, I inquired after Raphael. I was told
that he had lost father, mother, and wife in the space of a few years;
that after these pangs of the heart, he had had to bear the blows of
fortune, and that of all the domain of his fathers, nothing now
remained to him but the old dismantled tower on the edge of the ravine,
the garden, orchard, and meadow, with a few acres of unproductive land.
These he ploughed himself, with two miserable cows; and was only
distinguished from his peasant neighbors by the book which he carried
to the field, and which he would sometimes hold in one hand, while the
other directed the plough. For many weeks, however, he had not been
seen to leave his wretched abode. It was supposed that he had started
on one of those long journeys which with him lasted years. "It would be
a pity," it was said, "for every one in the neighborhood loves him;
though poor, he does as much good as any rich man. Many a warm piece of
cloth has been made from the wool of his sheep; at night he teaches the
little children of the surrounding hamlets how to read and write, or
draw. He warms them at his hearth, and shares his bread with them,
though God knows he has not much to spare when crops are short, as this
year."

It was thus all spoke of Raphael. I wished to visit at least the abode
of my friend, and was directed to the foot of the hillock, on the
summit of which stood the blackened tower, with its surrounding sheds
and stables, amid a group of hazel-trees. A trunk of a tree, which had
been thrown across, enabled me to pass over the almost dried-up torrent
of the ravine, and I climbed the steep path, the loose stones giving