We felt like pagan Romans, who on starting out had perceived the happiest omens in earth and sky.

And at the Pfaueninsel!

Frau Friedrich, the wife of the man in charge of the fountains, kept a neat inn, in which, however, she by no means dished up to all persons what they would like.  But our mother knew her through Lenne, by whom her husband was employed, and she took good care of us.  How attractive to us children was the choice yet large collection she possessed!  Most of the members of the royal house had often been her guests, and had increased it to a little museum which contained countless milk and cream jugs of every sort and metal, even the most precious, and of porcelain and glass of every age.  Many would have been rare and welcome ornaments to any trades-museum.  Our mother had contributed a remarkably handsome Japanese jug which her brother had sent her.

After the banquet we young ones ran races, while the older people rested till coffee and punch were served.  Whether dancing was allowed at the Pfaueninsel I no longer remember, but at the Pichelsbergen it certainly was, and there were even three musicians to play.

And how delightful it was in the wood; how pleasant the rowing on the water, during which, when the joy of existence was at its height, the saddest songs were sung!  Oh, I could relate a hundred things of those birthdays in the country, but I have completely forgotten how we got home.  I only know that we waked the next morning full of happy recollections.

In the summer holidays we often took journeys—­generally to Dresden, where our father’s mother with her daughter, our aunt Sophie, had gone to live, the latter having married Baron Adolf von Brandenstein, an officer in the Saxon Guard, who, after laying aside the bearskin cap and red coat, the becoming uniform of that time, was at the head of the Dresden post office.

I remember these visits with pleasure, and the days when our grandmother and aunt came to Berlin.  I was fond of both of them, especially my lively aunt, who was always ready for a joke, and my affection was returned.  But these, our nearest relatives, in early childhood only passed through our lives like brilliant meteors; the visits we exchanged lasted only a few days; and when they came to Berlin, in spite of my mother’s pressing invitations, they never stayed at our house, but in a hotel.  I cannot imagine, either, that our grandmother would ever have consented to visit any one.  There was a peculiar exclusiveness about her, I might almost say a cool reserve, which, although proofs of her cordial love were not wanting, prevented her from caressing us or playing with us as grandmothers do.  She belonged to another age, and our mother taught us, when greeting her, to kiss her little white hand, which was always covered up to the fingers with waving lace, and to treat her with the utmost deference.  There was an air of aristocratic quiet in her surroundings which