the princess that you made with me, I
warn you it will not be so easily corrected."

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