or the tips of noses.

At last I was in the train and we were approaching Leipsic. I was
thinking of parents and friends, and as I mentally rehearsed our meeting
and greeting, I am sure my lips moved unconsciously, and the subtle
smile of anticipation must have played around them. It was 3.30 P. M., I
had travelled forty-five hours, but at last the old familiar landmarks
appeared. There was the row of poplars, the distant spire. Out came the
pocket-comb--a final touch, and in a few minutes I was in my mother's
arms. She had come upon the chance of my arriving by that train;
time-tables did not pretend to give much information in those days. It
is a long while ago, but I well remember that particular meeting and
embrace. The two separate parts of one whole were re-united and were
being welded together. Words had to wait. When they came--it does seem
absurd--they were the most trivial ones, and rushed out buzzing like
froth from the bottle. "Where's the green carpet-bag?" "I've got the
parcel;" "All right, here is my passport;" "And when did you leave? to
be sure, you must be hungry, poor boy;" and so on, till home was
reached, where other loving arms awaited me. As we sobered down, the
froth was brushed aside, the right words came, and we drank deep
draughts from the phial that contains the very essence of love.

My first visit was for the Traumanns. That tailor at the corner of the
Passage d'Orleans in the Palais Royal--he is there still--had made me a
waistcoat of blue velvet, dotted with little yellow spots; it was of the
very latest Paris fashion, and in it I went to make my call.

Once more a joyous meeting, a warm welcome. Herr Magister and the Frau
Magisterin were just the same as I had left them. Frida had grown, but
was little changed otherwise, just as bright and happy as ever; but
Bella I could not see; she was not well. That was disappointing; I kept
looking at her desk, just opposite me, with the glass inkstand on the
right, and the little bust of Mendelssohn I had given her, on the left.

"Well, good-bye, Frida," I said at the door, "tell Bella she must be
well by Friday; she's got to dance at least two waltzes and the cotillon
with me."

Now dancing at the Tuileries is a very good thing in its way; elbowing a
future emperor, and hobnobbing with a scoundrel disguised as a
gentleman, are things to brag of. But it is nothing to having a dance at
one's own home, with one's sisters, and one's sisters' frien