"An angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you cannot conceive with what touching kindness she treats her young protegees. I have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more delicate sympathy. You would think some irresistible attraction drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. Will you believe it? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses these poor children as 'my sisters!'" At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt my eyes fill with tears. Do you not also admire the admirable and pious conduct of this young princess? "Since the princess," said I, "is so marvellously gifted, I shall be greatly embarrassed when I am presented to her to-morrow. You know how timid I am; you know, also, that elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so that I am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed to-morrow; so I make up my mind to that beforehand." "Come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity upon you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her." "I am not a stranger to her, aunt?" "Certainly not." "How so?" "You recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left Oldenzaal, to travel with your father through Russia and England, I had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at the first _bal costume_ the late duchess gave?" "Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth century." "Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst he painted a faithful likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but even the style of the pictures of that time. "Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, the Princess Amelie, who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden times. Her father smiled, and said, 'This is the portrait of a cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his smile?'" Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug your shoulders with disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself, which are, alas, necessary to my story. "The Princess Amelie," continued my aunt, "deceived by this innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait, joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined expression of your face. Some time after, when I went to Gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of the olden time.'