None of us can tell what pittance the Princesses' College gives for the life-service of such a man. Not a tenth, I dare say, of what they give to Herr Hullabullützer. Such fuss, dear, as is made for the Herr's reception! The room is heated to a certain degree of nicety, the light is subdued, sherry and biscuits are ready for his refreshment, tea and cake (_our cake_) brought in afterwards, and the young ladies kept waiting in succession every quarter of an hour, so as not to lose a moment of his valuable time. And you should only see him lounging in the arm-chair; his little fourpenny-piece of a watch placed before him, as if the object of his visit was to follow its hands, and not our fingers. Why, he looks, dear, the handsomest personification of contentment, hair-oil, and conceit, that a foreigner ever _bamboozled_ people with in this country. His shirt is light pink, and perforated like an open-work jam tart. His wristbands are turned back nearly as much as the sheet on the pillow of a bed. His head would make a beautiful block for a French hair-dresser's window; and he has sufficient chains and miniature pistols, donkeys, cannons, and dogs dangling round his neck to start in business a Jew peddler. He dozes one-half the time; but then it is a reverie--the meditation of genius. The other half he plays with his glossy curls or his whitey-brown moustache, so he may well be excused if he doesn't know exactly to a minute what air his pupil is playing. It's true, he scarcely gives himself the trouble to correct us when we are wrong; but then he teaches the young princesses! and so we should not expect him to be over patient with little chits of school-girls. _He_ is an artist: poor Penn is only a man of intellect. _He_ goes to the palace three times a week; poor Penn has only been to college; so the two are not to be compared. Once, however, when your dearest Kitty was making more noise over the "Battle of Prague" than has ever been made over the battle of Waterloo, the ringleted Herr caught up her hand, and said, in a voice that melted with the sweetness of barley sugar, "I can-not perr-mit such soft litt-tle fin-gerrs to murr-derr har-mo-nie;" and--and, dearest, I think Kitty's hand felt the smallest possible baby's-touch of a squeeze. I had on your pretty turquoise ring at the time, and since then every girl has wished me to lend it her for her music lesson. Just as if it was the ring that!!!---- Fraulein Pinchinhertz is quite sentimental over the handsome Herr. She sits in the room during the lessons, looking and listening with all her soul in her eyes, and talking German in the _softest_ manner. But the Herr admires his boots infinitely more than he does her. But, bother take it, there's the bell for tea. Good-bye, my darling Nelly, and do not forget the toffee you promised to send to-- Your fondest KITTY CLOVER. P. S. I will show you the valentine when I come home. Tell me, have you had any? Pray, how many?