embroider slippers
wonderfully, and was very merry at a game of loto or forfeits, and had
a hundred small agremens de societe! which rendered her an acceptable
member of it.

But when Ottilia arrived, poor Dolly's reputation was crushed in a
month. The former wrote poems both in French and German; she painted
landscapes and portraits in real oil; and she twanged off a rattling
piece of Listz or Kalkbrenner in such a brilliant way, that Dora
scarcely dared to touch the instrument after her, or ventured, after
Ottilia had trilled and gurgled through "Una voce," or "Di piacer"
(Rossini was in fashion then), to lift up her little modest pipe in a
ballad. What was the use of the poor thing going to sit in the park,
where so many of the young officers used ever to gather round her? Whir!
Ottilia went by galloping on a chestnut mare with a groom after her, and
presently all the young fellows who could buy or hire horseflesh were
prancing in her train.

When they met, Ottilia would bounce towards her soul's darling, and
put her hands round her waist, and call her by a thousand affectionate
names, and then talk of her as only ladies or authors can talk of one
another. How tenderly she would hint at Dora's little imperfections of
education!--how cleverly she would insinuate that the poor girl had no
wit! and, thank God, no more she had. The fact is, that do what I will I
see I'm in love with her still, and would be if she had fifty children;
but my passion blinded me THEN, and every arrow that fiery Ottilia
discharged I marked with savage joy. Dolly, thank heaven, didn't mind
the wit much; she was too simple for that. But still the recurrence of
it would leave in her heart a vague, indefinite feeling of pain, and
somehow she began to understand that her empire was passing away,
and that her dear friend hated her like poison; and so she married
Klingenspohr. I have written myself almost into a reconciliation with
the silly fellow; for the truth is, he has been a good, honest husband
to her, and she has children, and makes puddings, and is happy.

Ottilia was pale and delicate. She wore her glistening black hair in
bands, and dressed in vapory white muslin. She sang her own words to
her harp, and they commonly insinuated that she was alone in the
world,--that she suffered some inexpressible and mysterious heart-pangs,
the lot of all finer geniuses,--that though she lived and moved in the
world she was not of it, that she was of