Elizabeth had not been trained for any great position. She was only sixteen: a madcap and a child of nature—accustomed, in so far as anyone in her station might be, to the untrammelled freedom of a highlander. She roamed the woods and the mountains—though not, as the author of “The Martyrdom of an Empress” tells us, with a gun in her hand, in pursuit of game. There are stories of her playing the zither, at the doors of cottages in remote Bavarian valleys, while peasant children danced to the music; and she was strangely beautiful, with haunting eyes and a wonderful wealth of hair. Depths of meaning looked out of those eyes: indications of those mysteries of her soul through which she was presently to figure as an unfathomable conundrum challenging a curious world. Francis Joseph—tall, handsome, blond, blue-eyed, a proud soldier and a gallant man, with no mystery or semblance of a mystery about him—looked into the girl’s eyes, and was conquered. Elizabeth was not formally presented—it was almost by accident that Francis Joseph first saw her. He was alone in a room when she entered, in a simple white dress, with flowers in her hair, and greeted him with a “Good morning, cousin.” He kept her talking—and, of course, as he was the Emperor, she could not possibly run away and leave him, however shy she felt—for quite a long time; and he ended by saying that he hoped to resume the conversation at dinner, or at the dance which was to follow. But Elizabeth feared not. She was still “in the schoolroom”—not yet “out”—had “nothing to wear.” “Still if your Majesty insists ...” she hesitated. “I do insist,” said Francis Joseph. “Listen! We’ll play a comedy. Say nothing to anyone, but dress for the party, and come down to it.” “But I shall be scolded.” “No, you won’t. I’ll see to that—you can trust me.” So the comedy was played; and, of course, when the Emperor expressed his pleasure at seeing the unexpected guest, the scolding flickered out; and, after that, matters progressed at a great pace, to the great chagrin, as one cannot doubt, of Sister Helen. The Emperor outraged all the proprieties by dancing half the night with the school-girl. When the dance was interrupted for tea to be served, he showed her an album containing coloured illustrations of the various national costumes worn in the eighteen States of Austria. “There,” he said. “These are my subjects. I wonder if you would like them to be your subjects, too.” Then they danced again; and when the cotillon came, he presented his little Cinderella with a bouquet of edelweiss, gathered with his own hands, with the result that everyone except Cinderella herself began to suspect that his intentions were serious.