"Why, so far as remembering the little boy that used to play with her in the orchard at her mother's cottage near Pirna, and with whom she used to go boating upon the Elbe, I believe the recollection is perfect. But come along--she insists upon seeing you, and is this very moment waiting supper in our room for you." "A thorough German she must be," thought I, "with her sympathies and her supper--her reminiscences and her Rhine wine hunting in couples through her brain." Summoning courage from the fact of our long absence from each other, I followed the manager through a wilderness of pavilions, forests, clouds and cataracts, and at length arrived at a little door, at which he knocked gently. "Come in," said a soft voice inside. We opened, and beheld a very beautiful young woman, in Tyrolese costume. She was to perform in the afterpiece--her low boddice and short scarlet petticoat displaying the most perfect symmetry of form and roundness of proportion. She was dressing her hair before a low glass as we came in, and scarcely turned at our approach; but in an instant, as if some sudden thought had struck her, she sprung fully round, and looking at me fixedly for above a minute--a very trying one for me--she glanced at her husband, whose countenance plainly indicated that she was right, and calling out, "C'est lui--c'est bien lui," threw herself into my arms, and sobbed convulsively. "If this were to be the only fruits of my impersonation," thought I, "it is not so bad--but I am greatly afraid these good people will find out a wife and seven babies for me before morning." Whether the manager thought that enough had been done for stage effect, I know not; but he gently disengaged the lovely Amelie, and deposited her upon a sofa, to a place upon which she speedily motioned me by a look from a pair of very seducing blue eyes. "Francois, mon cher, you must put off La Chaumiere. I can't play to-night." "Put it off! But only think of the audience, ma mie--they will pull down the house." "C'est possible," said she, carelessly. "If that give them any pleasure, I suppose they must be indulged; but I, too, must have a little of my own way. I shall not play." The tone this was said in--the look--the easy gesture of command--no less than the afflicted helplessness of the luckless husband, showed me that Amelie, however docile as a sweetheart, had certainly her own way as wife. While Le cher Francois then retired, to make his proposition to the audience, of substituting something for the Chaumiere--the "sudden illness of Madame Baptiste having prevented her appearance,"--we began to renew our old acquaintance, by a thousand inquiries from that long-past time, when we were sweethearts and lovers. "You remember me then so well?" said I.