The next day Mr. Brent left. When he bade me good-by he said: "Good-by, ma'am. If I have had a good time here, I owe it all to you." "Oh no, you don't!" I said. "You owe it all to yourself, and you may say to your mother, from me, that you won all hearts." He sighed and turned away his head, giving my hand an extra squeeze. "If you ever come to Colorado, just ask any one for Johnny Brent, and if I don't stand on my head for you it'll be because I've lost it." His leave-taking of the Countess was almost pathetic. He held her hand long and tenderly, and said, "I can't find any word, ma'am--I mean, Countess--but--thank you, thank you, that's all I can say." And the Countess (we thought she would faint) put her hand on his shoulder. He bent his head, and she kissed him on his forehead; and he (were the heavens going to fall?) stooped down and kissed her cheek. The Count said: "Good-by, my boy. Come again to see us"--and going to the walls where his collection of pistols hung, took one of them and handed it to him "This will remind you of us, but don't kill any one with it." "Never," said Mr. Brent. "I will hang it round my neck." Thus departed our American hero, for who but a hero could have stormed such a fortress and broken down all the traditional barriers? A day or two later we received a visit from royalty, in the person of Prince Frederick Charles of Prussia. In the evening we played a wonderful game called _taroc_, which was very intricate and almost impossible to learn. Old Baron Kessler, who undertook to teach it to me, got so sleepy that he actually yawned in my face. This Baron Kessler is quite a character--very clever, very artistic, very musical, and, strange to say, very superstitious. For instance, he wears an old waistcoat which has certain magical grease-spots on Fridays; on Mondays his purse must be in the left pocket of his coat, on Thursdays in his right pocket. He drinks nine times before twelve o'clock on special days, and has a cigar-case for each different day of the week. He hates losing at cards, and when he does it is quite an affair; and I am not sure that prayers are not offered up for him by his family in the chapel on his baronial estates. The last thing I saw was a vision of Herr Lenning (the head butler), who is sometimes a little shaky himself, helping the Baron up the stairs. Possibly it was the evening of the nine-drink morning. Next day we all left, except the old Baron, who for reasons of his own remained. WEIMAR, _September, 1874._