y engagement to the Princess
Ottilie of Lilienhoehe was publicly announced. Of our happiness, and mine
in particular, it is not necessary that I should speak. Let me sum it up
by saying that if poor Max could have been found, there would not have
been a cloud upon our horizon. If the truth must be told, however, I
fear the match was not altogether what the Prince of Lilienhoehe himself
desired. Max was the Crown Prince, and he would rather have had him for
his son-in-law; as, however, for reasons already stated, that was not
possible, he was fain to content himself with the next best person,
hoping, I suppose, that Max would never appear again, and that, in due
course, I should take his place upon the throne. And now let me describe
the day on which the information came to us that Max was in Brazil.

It was Christmas Day on which the first really reliable news of Max
reached us. I remember that Ottilie and I had been to church alone
together, my father and mother not feeling equal to accompanying us.
Leaving the churchyard afterwards, we let ourselves into the park by
means of a side gate.

"I wonder what Max is doing to-day?" I said to my companion, as we
walked along.

"Poor Max!" she answered, and there was a world of sadness in her voice.

"Do you know, Ottilie," I said, "I have a sort of conviction that we
shall hear something of him very soon. I don't know why I should think
so, but the notion has been in my head for the last few days. Let us
hope it may be true."

"God grant it may," she replied. "It would make a different woman of
your mother. She is wearing her heart out thinking and grieving about
him."

Ottilie and I let ourselves into the house by a side door, and, when we
had removed our wraps, proceeded to the Queen's boudoir, where our
Christmas mail awaited us. My mother, who had not left her room when we
departed for church, received us very graciously. Poor lady, the trials
and troubles with which her life had been afflicted were beginning to
tell upon her. She seemed to be ageing faster than was consistent with
her years. While we were talking, my father entered the room. Time had
also laid his finger heavily upon him; his hair was almost snow-white;
he walked with a stick, and, as we have been made aware, his heart had
not been equal to the work demanded of it for some time past.

When we had saluted him, we sat down to the perusal of our mails. I had
opened the greater portion of my correspo