And there, at Christmas time, a tall fir-tree from the Reichswald; covered with toys and cakes, grotesque masks, _papier-maché_ dolls, candles and shining lights, gladdened the hearts of the little tenantry, who were cuddled and kissed up and down by the hearty old Baron acting Father Christmas, with a mighty white beard, a cowl, and long wand; while Ernestine and Herminia glided about like good fairies, dispensing viands and wine to the sturdy Teutons and their blooming fraus, when the trees of the Reichswald were leafless and bare, and the branches glittered like silver and crystal in the frostwork, and the first snowdrops of the season were peeping up in sheltered spots, and the brown stacks of the last harvest were mantled with snow. And on these annual festive occasions there was seen the Countess Adelaide, as lively and jovial at fifty, if not so pretty, as she was at fifteen. There, too, were the grim ancestry, the men and women of other days and years, looking down from their garlanded frames, in ruffs and stomachers, in breastplates or fardingales, just as Hans Holbein, Rubens, and others had depicted them, and looking as demure as if they had never flirted, squeezed hands under the tablecloth, known the use of the mistletoe, or been like other folks 'world without end.' 'Hoch! hoch! Gott in Himmel! here they come--here is our dear boy at last!' exclaimed the Count, clapping his fat pudgy hands, as the open britzka, drawn by a pair of sparkling bays, came suddenly in sight, with two officers in blue uniforms occupying the back seat. One of these--Heinrich, no doubt--was waving his forage-cap, and the vehicle was driven straight to the grand approach. The enthusiasm of the old veteran of Waterloo swelling up in his breast when he saw the uniform of the 95th, for 'He thought of the days that had long since gone by, When his spirit was bold and his courage was high.' Herminia grew deadly pale, and took advantage of the Countess hurrying out upon the terrace to retire to her own room, whither, however, her watchful aunt almost immediately followed her. 'Dearest Aunt Adelaide, oh! spare me this great mortification!' intreated the trembling girl. 'Spare you?' repeated her aunt, now seriously angry, in expectation of a public scene before Charlie Pierrepont, a stranger. 'Yes, I implore you to spare me the horror of this meeting. Oh, Ludwig!' she moaned in her heart, 'my own Ludwig!' 'I do not know whether you are most weak or defiant,' replied her aunt. 'I give you a quarter of an hour to recover your composure and to make your appearance properly in the drawing-room, with such a bearing as will not be an insult to my son, to the memory of your father, and our whole family.' And with these words the Countess swept haughtily away.