rd to him; thrice
she embraced and kissed him. And then came my turn.

She embraced me and kissed me on the cheek, then tremblingly whispered
in my ear these words:

"My darling boy,--take care of your brother Lorand!" I take care of
Lorand? the child of the young man? the weak of the strong? the later
born guide the elder. The whole journey long this idea distracted me,
and I could not explain it to myself.

Of the impressions of the journey I retain no very clear recollections:
I think I slept very much in the carriage. The journey to Pressburg
lasted from early morning till late evening; only as twilight came on
did a new thought begin to keep me awake, a thought to which as yet I
had paid no attention: "What kind of a child could it be, for whom I was
now being exchanged? Who was to usurp my place at table, in my bed-room,
and in my mother's heart? Was she small or large? beautiful or ugly?
obedient or contrary? had she brothers or sisters, to whom I was to be a
brother? was she as much afraid of me as I was of her?"

For I was very much afraid of her.

Naturally, I dreaded the thought of the child who was meeting me at the
cross-roads with the avowed intention of taking my place as my mother's
child, giving me instead her own parents. Were they reigning princes,
still the loss would be mine. I confess that I felt a kind of sweet
bitterness in the idea that my substitute might be some dull, malicious
creature, whose actions would often cause mother to remember me. But if,
on the contrary, she were some quiet, angelic soul, who would soon steal
my mother's love from me! In every respect I trembled with fear of that
creature who had been born that she might be exchanged for me.

Towards evening grandmother told us that the town which we were going to
was visible. I was sitting with my back to the horses, and so I was
obliged to turn round in order to see. In the distance I could see the
four-columned white skeleton of a building, which was first apparent to
the eye.

"What a gigantic charnel-house," I remarked to grandmother.

"It is no charnel-house, my child, but it is the ruin of the citadel of
(Pressburg) Pozsony."[5]

[Footnote 5: Pozsony. A town in Hungary is called by the Germans
Pressburg.]

A curious ruin it is. This first impression ever remained in my mind: I
regarded it as a charnel-house.

It was quite late when we entered the town, which was very large
compared to ours. I had never seen suc