her in the homely
English fashion, "I have received a letter that you will doubtless
consider of some importance. The Count von Marquart is in England, and,
with your permission, will pay us a visit to-day. May I instruct
Beckerstein to telegraph to the effect that you will receive him?"

A look of pleasure came into my mother's face. What did Marquart's
presence in England mean? Did it foretell a change in our lives? She
hastened to assure my father that it would give her the utmost pleasure
to see the old Minister who had served our House so faithfully. I
thought of the Chancellor as I had last seen him, bending over my
mother's hand as he bade her good-bye in the street beyond the palace,
that terrible night on which we had fled from the Capital, and informed
her in answer to her question that I remembered him perfectly. Strangely
enough the enthusiasm which took possession of my mother and myself did
not extend to my father and Max. The former, I am inclined to think,
dreaded lest the Count's presence meant the commencement of an intrigue,
which would eventually land him in Pannonia; but Max's reception of the
news I am altogether at a loss to understand. The fact, however,
remained, that the Count was in England, and that in a few hours we
should see him once more.

For the remainder of the time that elapsed before he could be with us,
my mother was filled with the greatest impatience. Never before had she
been so well disposed towards the old man.

At last his carriage was seen rolling up the drive. Contrary to custom,
and, perhaps, to etiquette, we had assembled on the terrace before the
house, to await his arrival. Gradually the carriage drew nearer, and at
last it pulled up at the steps. When the servants had opened the door,
the figure of the aged statesman appeared, and ascended to where we were
standing waiting to receive him. The time that had elapsed since we had
last seen him had not played such havoc with him as we had expected. His
back was still as straight, his glance as piercing; his moustache and
hair may have been a little whiter, but it curled as fiercely as before.
His age must have bordered close upon eighty, but his intellect was as
keen as in his prime. He saluted my father and mother; then turned to
Max. I saw his eyes wander over him with evident approval, taking in and
appreciating the details of his appearance. "Here," doubtless he was
saying to himself, "is a man worthy to be called kin