There were five of us. The little New-Yorker, plump, blonde, and pretty, I call Cecilia: that is not her name, but if she suggested any saint it was the patron saint of music. Her soul was full of it, and it ran off the ends of her fingers in the most enchanting manner. Elise, half French, as you would see at a glance, was from the Golden Gate,--as dainty and pretty a bit of femininity as ever wore French gowns with the inimitable American air. Elise could smile her way straight through the world. All barriers gave way before her dimples, and with her on board ship we never feared icebergs at sea, feeling confident they would melt away before her glance. Thirdly, there was myself, and then I come to the masculine two-fifths of our party. First, the curate. He was young in years and in his knowledge of the great world. His parish had sent him to the Continent with us to regain his somewhat broken health. He sometimes spoke of himself as a shepherd, and he liked to talk of the Church as his bride: he always blushed when he looked straight at Elise. Cecilia liked him because his clerical coat gave tone to the party, and his dignity was sufficient for us all, thus saving us the trouble of assuming any. Lastly, there was Samayana, which was not his name either, from Bombay,--a real, live East-Indian nabob. In his own country he travelled with three tents, a dozen servants, as many horses, and always carried his laundress with him. Yet he never seemed lonely with us,--which we thought very agreeable in him. Crawford had just created Mr. Isaacs, and we fancied there was a resemblance,--barring the wives,--and he told us such graphic stories of life in India that we were not always sure in just which quarter of the globe we were touring. Both Samayana and the curate were picturesque--for men. Two beings more opposed never came together, yet they liked each other thoroughly. Samayana was greatly admired in European society for his color, his gift as a _raconteur_, and the curious rings he wore. He was very dusky, and Cecilia, being very blonde, valued him as a most effective foil and adjunct. We were seeing Germany in the most leisurely fashion, courting the unexpected and letting things happen to us. On the day of which I write we spent the early morning on the Königsee, in Bavaria, the loveliest sheet of water in Germany, vying in grandeur with any Swiss or Italian lake. Its color is that of the pheasant's breast, and the green mountain-sides, almost perpendicular in places, rise till their peaks are in the clouds and their snows are perpetual. Stalwart, bronzed peasant girls, in the short skirts of the Bavarian costume, rowed us about. A few years ago, in answer to a petition, King Louis I. promised them that never in his reign should steam supplant them. They laughed happily and looked proudly at their muscle when we hinted at their being tired.