singularly enough, was of noble family--his real name was Von Wurmkessel
--did his duty as noiselessly as a shadow. Then there was a faint
perfume of mignonette in most of the rooms, which makes me think of them
whenever I see the pretty flower, for, as is well known, smell is the
most powerful of all the senses in awakening memory.

I never sat in my grandmother's lap. When we wished to talk with her we
had to sit beside her; and if we kept still she would question us
searchingly about everything--our play, our friends, our school.

This silence, which always struck us children at first with astonishment,
was interrupted very gaily by our aunt, whose liveliness broke in upon it
like the sound of a horn amid the stillness of a forest. Her cheerful
voice was audible even in the hall, and when she crossed the threshold we
flew to her, and the spell was broken. For she, the only daughter, put
no restraint on herself in the reserved presence of her mother. She
kissed her boisterously, asked how she was, as if she were the mother,
the other the child. Indeed, she took the liberty sometimes of calling
the old lady "Henrietta"--that was her name--or even "Hetty." Then, when
grandmother pointed to us and exclaimed reproachfully, "Why, Sophie!"
our aunt could always disarm her with gay jests.

Though the two were generally at a distance, their existence made itself
felt again and again either through letters or presents or by their
coming to Berlin, which always brought holidays for us.

These journeys were accomplished under difficulties. Our aunt had always
used an open carriage, and was really convinced that she would stifle in
a closed railway compartment. But as she would not forego the benefit of
rapid transit, our grandmother was obliged, even after her daughter's