CHAPTER I. 



BOOKS. 



One pleasant August day, fifty-five years ago, in a 

 quiet chamber in Paris, sat a pale and thoughtful woman. 

 The chamber was decidedly French, the furniture dating 

 back, it may be, to the days of Louis Quatorze ; yet there 

 was something in its atmosphere not quite in keeping. 

 Perhaps it was the books and pictures, both of which 

 were German, or it might have been the lady herself, 

 who was also German. She was not beautiful ; her 

 figure was a little crooked, but the contour of her head 

 was fine, and her eyes were remarkably brilliant. Indeed, 

 her eyes were too brilliant, large and lustrous, as is often 

 the case with those who are, or have been, ill. That this 

 lady was ill, could be seen at a glance. Being a wife and 

 mother she had known all the pains and pleasures of 

 woman. She knew what it was to give birth to children, 

 and to have her children die. A few months before she 

 had given birth to a daughter, her fifth child, who soon 

 died. It was this that made her pale and thoughtful. 

 On the couch beside her lay a book, which she had just 

 been reading, a German book, the work of Goethe, or 

 Schiller. Beside her was a bundle of letters, one with a 

 foreign "post mark. It was directed to her husband, 



