The walls of the room were of rose-chestnut, and over an openwork
trellis, a luxuriant broadleaved ivy twined around the whole room. All
the tables and chairs were of carved rose-chestnut. The floor was of
variegated woodwork. It gave me a curious sensation to see so much
that was familiar in the room. Many articles from our old play-room in
the castle were old friends, but the others were new, especially the
pictures, and yet they were the same as those in my University
room--the same portraits of Beethoven, Handel and Mendelssohn, as I had
selected--hung over the grand piano. In one corner I saw the Venus di
Milo, which I always regarded as the masterpiece of antiquity. On the
table were volumes of Dante, Shakspeare, Tauler's Sermons, the "German
Theology," Ruckert's Poems, Tennyson and Burns, and Carlyle's "Past and
Present,"--the very same books--all of which I had had but recently in
my hands. I was growing thoughtful, but I repressed my thoughts and
was just standing before the portrait of the deceased Princess, when
the door opened, and the same two servants, whom I had so often seen in
childhood, brought the Countess into the room upon her couch.

What a vision! She spoke not a word, and her countenance was as placid
as the sea, until the servants left the room. Then her eyes sought
me--the old, deep, unfathomable eyes. Her expression grew more
animated each instant. At last her whole face lit up, and she said:

"We are old friends--I believe; we have not changed. I cannot say
'You,' and if I may not say 'Thou,' then we must speak in English. Do
you understand me?"

I had not anticipated such a reception, for I saw here was no
masquerade--here was a soul which longed for another soul--here was a
greeting like that between two friends who recognize each other by the