I was about to thank him for his goodness; but with an impatient movement he drew back, as he said: “For Heaven’s sake, don’t come the sentimental!” My parents said no more to me about the count; and it may be readily imagined that I never mentioned him to them. A few evenings before the soirée at which I made the resolve to write my Memoirs, his mother was present, and made a point of showing me the greatest kindness. This noble heartedness made me feel so small and ashamed that I had to exercise the greatest self-control to prevent myself from earnestly praying the countess to think kindly of me and forgive me. It would have been a fearful want of tact had I done so. As she moved away, mischievous Pierre Coucy said, with a titter, “She is more _la crème_ to-night than ever--but sour.” “No wonder,” rejoined his brother, with a side glance at me. Then to Elizabeth: “Have you heard our paragon son is off on a cruise--to Bohemia?” “No, no,” put in Pierre; “in an air balloon to recover his equilibrium.” I was confused at their sallies. But Elizabeth, with her majestic calm, said: “You are romancing, now the secret is out! I have long suspected your silent proclivities.” “You are wrong, countess! More than a writer of romance, I am a prophet!” “Highly necessary, in order to see through a sphinx like our friend Count Taxen.” So they went on cutting bad jests, until I felt quite sorry for the count, who looked upon the Coucys as his friends. They must have imparted their surmise to others besides ourselves, for when Baron Schwarzburg came up to me that evening, I read it on his brow, and it laughed in his eyes, as he heartily wished the count a pleasant journey. * * * * * Things are very strange at home now, and not altogether pleasant. Even my Duphot, for the first time in my life, bears a grudge against me--in her gentle way, be it understood, and quite as much to her sorrow as to mine. My beloved father is out of sorts, and although he often says, “Do whatever you like,” the words over which I used to exult now make me sad. I always dread lest I should hear in them, “Our wishes, of course, are of no account to you.” Mamma, too, seems depressed, and spends more time in church than ever. She must be praying there for Elizabeth; for she has laid it upon me in my daily prayers to commend my poor sister to God, that he may turn her heart, and awaken in it a befitting and dutiful love to her husband. And I pray accordingly, though I must confess I doubt whether the Divine Power will see fit to be influenced in such a cause. The true love which can arouse that burning devotion in us, akin only to sacred adoration, is given us by our Heavenly Father, if to be given at all, from the very beginning. The miserable supplementary love, gathered together for us by joint prayers, what can that avail?