anguish upon my mother’s favourite! Impulsively I wrote off to my brother Florian’s widow, whom I knew to have the kindest heart in the world, telling her what I had reason to belief was the case, that Fräulein von Lilienkranz found the strain and publicity of her life very trying, and would be most thankful to exchange it for a more sheltered one. Would not my sister-in-law find room for her in her household, even if only as instructor in music to her year-old daughter? I waited impatiently for the answer. Princess Florian wrote in evident distress of mind. She would have been delighted to befriend any one in whom my mother had been interested, but in this case she had been _warned_--deeply underlined--that it would be _wiser_ not to take any step, and she _could_ not disregard the warning. I was perplexed and disappointed, but I could not give up my plan so easily. I ran down to my sister-in-law’s estates on a visit--having duly obtained leave--and asked her point-blank why she would not help Fräulein von Lilienkranz. With the utmost difficulty I extracted from her that in view of the rumours connecting the young lady’s name with mine, she could not admit her into her household. In vain I pointed out to her that if I had unwittingly compromised the girl, my relations might at least do what they could to clear her name, but she was afraid of offending my father, and would do nothing. Then I saw that there was method in what had been done. I was to be entangled in an ordinary vulgar scandal, to keep me from rushing into an unequal marriage. There and then I determined to turn the tables upon my friends, and I waylaid the old duenna the next day, and with all possible frankness took her into my confidence. I told her it was my desire to marry Fräulein von Lilienkranz, and intrusted her with a letter asking for an interview. The adventure pleased me; there was something chivalrous in the idea that made me half in love with the girl already, and when I saw her, her resistance to the notion determined me to persist in it. She was horrified at the thought of injuring the son of her patroness, but she was lonely and troubled, and had learnt that a public life is not the easiest one in the world for a good woman. I told her that I was resolved upon escaping from Pannonia, and that if she would give up her career for my sake, we would make a home together in the New World. I had not foreseen her adoring gratitude, and it made me ashamed, but she consented, and I laid my plans--quickly, you may guess, for whether I attended her concerts or stayed away from them, tongues wagged afresh, and Konstantia suffered a new martyrdom. I needn’t waste time in telling you of the different failures and disappointments I had to face; let us go on to the decisive moment. It was a cold spring evening. I had ordered a special train to be in readiness to take me southwards at eleven o’clock, and I had also invited a number of friends to supper