_May 25th._--Reading through these pages yesterday, I asked myself if these really are memoirs that I am writing? Memoirs treat of interesting people, and I am only writing about myself; they treat of interesting times, and I only occupy myself with the present, which, for the matter of that, is very interesting. “A momentous period in the political world!” I heard an old gentleman say the other day. My whole understanding for politics, however, is confined to a decided interest in all that concerns the governorship of our province. Opportunities of discussing it, ever so welcome to me, are not wanting, papa having interests at stake in it. His object is to prevent the inhabitants of one of the districts, against better judgment, from cutting down the trees and tilling the land of one of the forests belonging to him. Until quite lately he was forever complaining of the laxity of the local authorities. Suddenly, his invectives have ceased. I had long wanted to know why, but had not ventured to inquire into the subject on account of his not standing well with the authorities. At length to-day, taking courage, I said: “How are things going about the district forest, papa? Is it going to be under tillage?” “No, it is not.” “Then you have carried your point. That is capital.” “Father has carried his point, because he has put it, at last, into the hands of the right man,” interposed Bernhard, continuing, unabashed by papa’s meaning look--“of the man of right, who this time has proved the truth of his axiom, Right must conquer.” Mamma and Mme. Duphot in vain endeavored to turn the subject; Bernhard, sticking to his point, would not yield until he had forced from dear papa the acknowledgment that Baron Schwarzburg was a man of great talent, and a very fine fellow. That afternoon it was settled that in a week we should leave town for Trostburg. Elizabeth was to come on a long visit to us, and without her husband, who has just bought a new place in the Marmaros, and is about to build a hunting castle there. My sister is quite another person since her husband’s departure; so much more animated, lively to audacity, and so loving and affectionate to papa and mamma. She coaxes and pets me as if I were a baby. “If only you had a real baby!” I said to her once. “Silence!” she cried. “It is my one source of thankfulness that Heaven has not given me one! I should have hated it as I do----” She did not finish her sentence; but I understood her too well, and felt a rush of deepest pity for her.