man, his readiness to abide by his word.'

'For a woman--what?'

'For a princess, her ancestry.'

'Ah! but I spoke of women. There, there is my ground of love for my
Professor! I meet my equals, princes, princesses, and the man, the woman,
is out of them, gone, flown! They are out of the tide of humanity; they
are walking titles, "Now," says my Professor, "that tide is the blood of
our being; the blood is the life-giver; and to be cut off from it is to
perish." Our princely houses he esteems as dead wood. Not near so much
say I: yet I hear my equals talk, and I think, "Oh! my Professor, they
testify to your wisdom." I love him because he has given my every sense a
face-forward attitude (you will complain of my feebleness of speech) to
exterior existence. There is a princely view of life which is a true one;
but it is a false one if it is the sole one. In your Parliament your
House of Commons shows us real princes, your Throne merely titled ones. I
speak what everybody knows, and you, I am sure, are astonished to hear
me.'

'I am,' said I.

'It is owing to my Professor, my mind's father and mother. They say it is
the pleasure of low-born people to feel themselves princes; mine it is to
share their natural feelings. "For a princess, her ancestry." Yes; but
for a princess who is no more than princess, her ancestors are a bundle
of faggots, and she, with her mind and heart tied fast to them, is, at
least a good half of her, dead wood. This is our opinion. May I guess at
your thoughts?'

'It's more than I could dare to do myself, princess.'

How different from the Ottilia I had known, or could have imagined! That
was one thought.

'Out of the number, then, this,' she resumed: 'you think that your
English young ladies have command over their tongues: is it not so?'

'There are prattlers among them.'

'Are they educated strictly?'

'I know little of them. They seem to me to be educated to conceal their
education.'

'They reject ideas?'

'It is uncertain whether they have had the offer.'

Ottilia smiled. 'Would it be a home in their midst?'

Something moved my soul to lift wings, but the passion sank.

'I questioned you of English ladies,' she resumed, 'because we read your
writings of us. Your kindness to us is that which passes from nurse to
infant; your criticism reminds one of paedagogue and urchin. You make us
sorry for our manners and habits, if they are so bad; but most of all you
are merry at our s