I have followed thus far the narrative of our good Barnes, giving in her own simple language an account of the first three years of the life over which she watched so faithfully. It was at about the time when these notes stop, that the letter of a friend staying with us in Paris, describes the poor child in these words:--“Little Otto seems to grow smaller and smaller, and he is always suffering. You cannot think what a dear child it is,--much too good for this world!” And a little later she wrote:--“Otto is marvellously precocious, his mental development is quite extraordinary, he is altogether an ethereal little being!” On his third birthday we had sent out a little table with all his presents, and stood round it, eager to witness the expression of his delight. But he could only say--“Is all that for me?” as he looked at each thing in turn with big wondering eyes, and it was only a month later, that, looking out from the window at the children walking and running happily in the Champs Elysées, he asked:--“And have those little children really no pain?” And when he heard that they had not:--“Oh! how glad I am!” he exclaimed. When he was four years old, a little white rabbit was given him, which became his greatest pet, his constant companion, following his little master about everywhere like a dog, and licking his face and hands. The only time I ever saw Otto give way to a real fit of despair, was on one occasion when he believed that his dear Bunny had burnt itself. The poor little fellow flung himself on the ground, with piercing screams, tearing at his hair, and his heart still went on thumping like a hammer, long after he had convinced himself that his beloved playfellow had really met with no harm. The faithful little creature outlived its master just a year. Quite early the poor boy had begun to practise most marvellous self-control. After a sleepless night, he would walk up and down in his room, with his little fists clenched, saying from time to time--“now I am ready--now I can go in!”--until he felt that he was sufficiently prepared to appear among the rest of us at the breakfast-table, where he would take his place, pale as death, but apparently quite calm. When he was five years old, he began learning to read, and also to join Wilhelm and myself in reciting poetry, as was our custom every Sunday. In this he soon gave evidence of quite exceptional talent; from simple rhymes and fables in verse passing on quickly to the ballads of Schiller and Bürger, and these he declaimed with so much spirit and such a rare sense of humour, that it was a treat to see and hear him.