nderness to the pilgrim, it was with
the idea that her own was being thus treated in the far distance; for a
mother's love cannot be bought at a price but only gained by love.

It was an institution that only a woman's thought could found: so
different from that frigid system invented by men which founded
nunneries, convents, and closed colleges for the benefit of susceptible
young hearts where all memory of family life was permanently wiped out
of their minds.

After that unhappy day, which, like the unmovable star, could never go
so far into the distance as to be out of sight, grandmother more than
once said to us in the presence of mother, that it would not be good for
us to remain in this town; we must be sent somewhere else.

Mother long opposed the idea. She did not wish to part from us. Yet the
doctors advised the same course. When the spasms seized her, for days we
were not allowed to visit her, as it made her condition far worse.

At last she gave her consent, and it was decided that we two should be
sent to Pressburg. My brother, who was already too old to be exchanged,
went to the home of a Privy Councillor, who was paid for taking him in,
and my place was to be taken by a still younger child than myself, by a
little German girl, Fanny, the daughter of Henry Fromm, baker.
Grandmother was to take us in a carriage--in those days in Hungary we
had only heard rumors of steamboats--and to bring the girl substitute
back with her.

For a week the whole household sewed, washed, ironed and packed for us;
we were supplied with winter and summer clothing: on the last day
provisions were prepared for our journey, as if we had intended to make
a voyage to the end of the world, and in the evening we took supper in
good time, that we might rise early, as we had to start before daybreak.
That was my first departure from my home. Many a time since then have I
had to say adieu to what was dearest to me; many sorrows, more than I
could express, have afflicted me: but that first parting caused me the
greatest pain of all, as is proved by the fact that after so long an
interval I remember it so well. In the solitude of my own chamber, I
bade farewell separately to all those little trifles that surrounded me:
God bless the good old clock that hast so oft awakened me. Beautiful
raven, whom I taught to speak and to say "Lorand," on whom wilt thou
play thy sportive tricks? Poor old doggy, maybe thou wilt not be living
when I ret