But, dearest mother, what can you think of my letters? I began to tell you of my one happy day and have spread my speculations over the whole human race. I started to take you for a promenade along Unter den Linden, and to rest by the cool fountain in the Lustgarten, and have ended with a few feeble remarks upon the possible sources of sentiment and sorrow. But Boston is waiting for his dinner, for he dines with me to-night. What a jolly day we’ve had, eh, Boston? and we will sleep and dream of you, dear mamma, and many more, for none but bidden guests must fill my room to-night. By the way, I do wonder if the poor, weak brain of my little terrier is in any degree susceptible of being stirred by memories of his old friends? In any event, I envy him, for he is not amenable to the necessities of a false life, “a liar of unspoken lies.” Dear mamma, a sweet good-night. I am sending you a few pictures picked up at Lepkes. The group I am sure you will enjoy, though I like better the portrait by Van Dyck. There is a haunting sort of look about it, reminding me of someone I have known somewhere. I wonder if you will discern it? Probably it was only a passing fancy, one of such as have filled my brain all day long. Again love and good-by. ELLEN. _From the Baroness Von Eulaw to Mrs. Perces Thornton._ MENTONE, Italy, August 10, 1893. DEAREST MOTHER: How rebellious my heart and impatient my pen as I take it up to write words which only your mother’s ear should catch from my lips! Where shall I begin to tell you the history of the past month? Really, my memory seems too surcharged with a sense of bitterness and wrong to do me service. But I must lead you step by step, reluctant as I know you are to follow me behind the gilded arras. After his return from St. Petersburg, the baron developed more pronounced signs of jealousy than had ever appeared hitherto. Perhaps this feeling was stimulated by my last letter to you, which I inadvertently left unmailed, and which he opened and read. Suspicious husbands you know are as jealous of moods as of men, and not to be miserable “when the Sultan goes to Ispahan” is indeed a crime. I believe there are few jealous husbands who are themselves guiltless. I do not think, however, that this test applies to my own sex, albeit I do not take refuge in the exception—Heaven save the mark!