My poor riddle!  My stony sphinx!  My clinging hallucination!  Again I should have it with me, stalking at my side by day, lying by me at night, whirling through my brain at all times, and driving me mad with its eternal question, “Who is Yolanda?” The solution of my riddle may be clear to you as I am telling you the story.  At least, you may think it is, since I am trying to conceal nothing from you.  I relate this history in the order of its happening, and wish, if possible, to place before you the manner in which this question of Yolanda’s identity puzzled me.  If you will put yourself in my place, you will at once realize how deeply I was affected by this momentous, unanswered, unanswerable question, “Who is Yolanda?” and you will understand why I could not see the solution, however clear you may believe it to be to yourself.

We soon went in to supper and, after the peacock, the pheasants, and the pastries were removed, we were served with a most delicious after-dish in sparkling glass cups.  It was frozen orange-water mixed with wine of Burgundy.  I had never tasted a dish so palatable.  I had dined at the emperor’s table in Vienna; I had lived in Italy; I had sojourned in the East, where luxuries are most valued and used, but I had never partaken of a more delicious supper than that which I ate at the house of my rich burgher friend, George Castleman.  There might have been a greater showing of plate, though that was not lacking, but there could have been no whiter linen nor more appetizing dishes than those which good Frau Kate gave us that evening.

After the frozen wine had disappeared, a serving-maid brought in a stoneware pan covered with a snowy pastry, made from the whites of eggs and clear sugar.  At its entry Yolanda clapped her hands and cried out with childish delight.  When the pan was placed before Castleman, she exclaimed:—­

“Be careful, uncle!  Don’t thrust the knife too deep, or you will kill the birds.”

Uncle Castleman ran the point of the knife around the outer edge of the crust, and, with a twist of the blade, quickly lifted it from the pan, when out flew a dozen or more wrens.  Yolanda’s delight knew no bounds.  She sprang from her chair, exclaiming:—­

“Catch them!  Catch them!” and led the way.

She climbed on chairs, tables, and window shelves, and soon had her hands full of the demure little songsters.  Max, too, was pursuing the wrens, and Twonette, losing part of her serenity, actually caught a bird.  The sport was infectious, and soon fat old Castleman was puffing like a tired porpoise, and sedate old Karl de Pitti was in the chase.  Frau Katherine grabbed desperately at a bird now and then, but she was too stout to catch one and soon took her chair, laughing and out of breath.  Yolanda screamed with laughter, and after she had caught six or seven birds and put them in the cage provided for them, she asked Max to lift her in his arms that she might reach one resting on a beam near the ceiling.  Max gladly complied, and Yolanda, having caught the bird, said:—­