ve　we　been　together　to　the　school　he　was　at　in　Brandenburg；　and　spent　pleasant　days　wandering　about　the　old　town　on　the　edge　of　one　of　those　lakes　that　lie　in　a　chain　in　that　wide　green　plain；　and　often　have　we　been　in　Potsdam；　where　he　was　quartered　as　a　lieutenant；　the　Potsdam　pilgrimage　including　hours　in　the　woods　around　and　in　the　gardens　of　Sans　Souci；　with　the　second　volume　of　Carlyle's　Frederick　under　my　father's　arm；　and　often　did　we　spend　long　summer　days　at　the　house　in　the　Mark；　at　the　head　of　the　same　blue　chain　of　lakes；　where　his　mother　spent　her　young　years；　and　where；　though　it　belonged　to　cousins；　like　everything　else　that　was　worth　having；　we　could　wander　about　as　we　chose；　for　it　was　empty；　and　sit　in　the　deep　windows　of　rooms　where　there　was　no　furniture；　and　the　painted　Venuses　and　cupids　on　the　ceiling　still　smiled　irrelevantly　and　stretched　their　futile　wreaths　above　the　emptiness　beneath。　And　while　we　sat　and　rested；　my　father　told　me；　as　my　grandmother　had　a　hundred　times　told　him；　all　that　had　happened　in　those　rooms　in　the　far…off　days　when　people　danced　and　sang　and　laughed　through　life；　and　nobody　seemed　ever　to　be　old　or　sorry。
  There　was；　and　still　is；　an　inn　within　a　stone's　throw　of　the　great　iron　gates；　with　two　very　old　lime　trees　in　front　of　it；　where　we　used　to　lunch　on　our　arrival　at　a　little　table　spread　with　a　red　and　blue　check　cloth；　the　lime　blossoms　dropping　into　our　soup；　and　the　bees　humming　in　the　scented　shadows　overhead。　I　have　a　picture　of　the　house　by　my　side　as　I　write；　done　from　the　lake　in　old　times；　with　a　boat　full　of　ladies　in　hoops　and　powder　in　the　foreground；　and　a　youth　playing　a　guitar。　The　pilgrimages　to　this　place　were　those　I　loved　the　best。
  But　the　stories　my　father　told　me；　sometimes　odd　enough　stories　to　tell　a　little　girl；　as　we　wandered　about　the　echoing　rooms；　or　hung　over　the　stone　balustrade　and　fed　the　fishes　in　the　lake；　or　picked　the　pale　dog…roses　in　the　hedges；　or　lay　in　the　boat　in　a　shady　reed…grown　bay　while　he　smoked　to　keep　the　mosquitoes　off；　were　after　all　only　traditions；　imparted　to　me　in　small　doses　from　time　to　time；　when　his　earnest　desire　not　to　raise　his　remarks　above　the　level　of　dulness　supposed　to　be　wholesome　for　Backfische　was　neutralised　by　an　impulse　to　share　his　thoughts　with　somebody　who　would　laugh；　whereas　the　place　I　was　bound　for　on　my　latest　pilgrimage　was　filled　with　living；　first…hand　memories　of　all　the　enchanted　years　that　lie　between　two　and　eighteen。　How　enchanted　those　years　are　is　made　more　and　more　clear　to　me　the　older　I　grow。　　There　has　been　nothing　in　the　least　like　them　since；　and　though　I　have　forgotten　most　of　what　happened　six　months　ago；　every　incident；　almost　every　day　of　those　wonderful　long　years　is　perfectly　distinct　in　my　memory。
  But　I　had　been　stiffnecked；　proud；　unpleasant；　altogether　cousinly　in　my　behaviour　towards　the　people　in　possession。　The　invitations　to　revisit　the　old　home　had　ceased。　The　cousins　had　grown　tired　of　refusals；　and　had　left　me　alone。　I　did　not　even　know　who　lived　in　it　now；　it　was　so　long　since　I　had　had　any　news。　　For　two　days　I　fought　against　the　strong　desire　to　go　there　that　had　suddenly　seized　me；　and　assured　myself　that　I　would　not　go；　that　it　would　be　absurd　to　go；　undignified；　sentimental；　and　silly；　that　I　did　not　know　them　and　would　be　in　an　awkward　position；　and　that　I　was　old　enough　to　know　better。　　But　who　can　foretell　from　one　hour　to　the　next　what　a　woman　will　do？　And　when　does　she　ever　know　better？　　On　the　third　morning　I　set　out　as　hopefully　as　though　it　were　the　most　natural　thing　in　the　world　to　fall　unexpectedly　upon　hitherto　consistently　neglected　cousins；　and　expect　to　be　received　with　open　arms。
  It　was　a　complicated　journey；　and　lasted　several　hours。　During　the　first　part；　when　it　was　still　dark；　I　glowed　with　enthusiasm；　with　the　spirit　of　adventure；　with　delight　at　the　prospect　of　so　soon　seeing　the　loved　place　again；　and　thought　with　wonder　of　the　long　years　I　had　allowed　to　pass　since　last　I　was　there。　　Of　what　I　should　say　to　the　cousins；　and　of　how　I　should　introduce　myself　into　their　midst；　I　did　not　think　at　all：　　the　pilgrim　spirit　was　upon　me；　the　unpractical　spirit　that　takes　no　thought　for　anything；　but　simply　wanders　along　enjoying　its　own　emotions。　It　was　a　quiet；　sad　morning；　and　there　was　a　thick　mist。　By　the　time　I　was　in　the　little　train　on　the　light　railway　that　passed　through　the　village　nearest　my　old　home；　I　had　got　over　my　first　enthusiasm；　and　had　entered　the　stage　of　critically　examining　the　changes　that　had　been　made　in　the　last　ten　years。　It　was　so　misty　that　I　could　see　nothing　of　the　familiar　country　from　the　carriage　windows；　only　the　ghosts　of　pines　in　the　front　row　of　the　forests；　but　the　railway　itself　was　a　new　departure；　unknown　in　our　day；　when　we　used　to　drive　over　ten　miles　of　deep；　sandy　forest　roads　to　and　from　the　station；　and　although　most　people　would　have　called　it　an　evident　and　great　improvement；　it　was　an　innovation　due；　no　doubt；　to　the　zeal　and　energy　of　the　reigning　cousin；　and　who　was　he；　thought　I；　that　he　should　require　more　conveniences　than　my　father　had　found　needful？　It　was　no　use　my　telling　myself　that　in　my　father's　time　the　era　of　light　railways　had　not　dawned；　and　that　if　it　had；　we　should　have　done　our　utmost　to　secure　one；　the　thought　of　my　cousin；　stepping　into　my　shoes；　and　then　altering　them；　was　odious　to　me。　By　the　time　I　was　walking　up　the　hill　from　the　station　I　had　got　over　this　feeling　too；　and　had　entered　a　third　stage　of　wondering　uneasily　what　in　the　world　I　should　do　next。　Where　was　the　intrepid　courage　with　which　I　had　started？　At　the　top　of　the　first　hill　I　sat　down　to　consider　this　question　in　detail；　for　I　was　very　near　the　house　now；　and　felt　I　wanted　time。　Where；　indeed；　was　the　courage　and　joy　of　the　morning？　It　had　vanished　so　completely　that　I　could　only　suppose　that　it　must　be　lunch　time；　the　observations　of　years　having　led　to　the　discovery　that　the　higher　sentiments　and　virtues　fly　affrighted　on　the　approach　of　lunch；　and　none　fly　quicker　than　courage。　So　I　ate　the　lunch　I　had　brought　with　me；　hoping　that　it　was　what　I　wanted；　but　it　was　chilly；　made　up　of　sandwiches　and　pears；　and　it　had　to　be　eaten　under　a　tree　at　the　edge　of　a　field；　and　it　was　November；　and　the　mist　was　thicker　than　ever　and　very　wet　the　grass　was　wet　with　it；　the　gaunt　tree　was　wet　with　it；　I　was　wet　with　it；　and　the　sandwiches　were　wet　with　it。　Nobody's　spirits　can　keep　up　under　such　conditions；　and　as　I　ate　the　soaked　sandwiches；　I　deplored　the　headlong　courage　more　with　each　mouthful　that　had　torn　me　from　a　warm；　dry　home　where　I　was　appreciated；　and　had　brought　me　first　to　the　damp　tree　in　the　damp　field；　and　when　I　had　finished　my　lunch　and　dessert　of　cold　pears；　was　going　to　drag　me　into　the　midst　of　a　circle　of　unprepared　and　astonished　cousins。　Vast　sheep　loomed　through　the　mist　a　few　yards　off。　The　sheep　dog　kept　up　a　perpetual；　irritating　yap。　In　the　fog　I　could　hardly　tell　where　I　was；　though　I　knew　I　must　have　played　there　a　hundred　times　as　a　child。　After　the　fashion　of　woman　directly　she　is　not　perfectly　warm　and　perfectly　comfortable；　I　began　to　consider　the　uncertainty　of　human　life；　and　to　shake　my　head　in　gloomy　approval　as　lugubrious　lines　of　pessimistic　poetry　suggested　themselves　to　my　mind。
  Now　it　is　clearly　a　desirable　plan；　if　you　want　to　do　anything；　to　do　it　in　the　way　consecrated　by　custom；　more　especially　if　you　are　a　woman。　　The　rattle　of　a　carriage　along　the　road　just　behind　me；　and　the　fact　that　I　started　and　turned　suddenly　hot；　drove　this　truth　home　to　my　soul。　The　mist　hid　me；　and　the　carriage；　no　doubt　full　of　cousins；　drove　on　in　the　direction　of　the　house；　but　what　an　absurd　position　I　was　in！　　Suppose　the　kindly　mist　had　lifted；　and　revealed　me　lunching　in　the　wet　on　their　property；　the　cousin　of　the　short　and　lofty　letters；　the　unangenehme　Elisabeth！　〃Die　war　doch　immer　verdreht；〃　I　could　imagine　them　hastily　muttering　to　each　other；　before　advancing　wreathed　in　welcoming　smiles。　It　gave　me　a　great　shock；　this　narrow　escape；　and　I　got　on　to　my　feet　quickly；　and　burying　the　remains　of　my　lunch　under　the　gigantic　molehill　on　which　I　had　been　sitting；　asked　myself　nervously　what　I　proposed　to　do　next。　Should　I　walk　back　to　the　village；　go　to　the　Gasthof；　write　a　letter　craving　permission　to　call　on　my　cousins；　and　wait　there　till　an　answer　came？　　It　would　be　a　discreet　and　sober　course　to　pursue；　the　next　best　thing　to　having　written　before　leaving　home。　But　the　Gasthof　of　a　north　German　village　is　a　dreadful　place；　and　the　remembrance　of　one　in　which　I　had　taken　refuge　once　from　a　thunderstorm　was　still　so　vivid　that　nature　itself　cried　out　against　this　plan。　　The　mist；　if　anything；　was　growing　denser。　　I　knew　every　path　and　gate　in　the　place。　What　if　I　gave　up　all　hope　of　seeing　the　house；　and　went　through　the　little　door　in　the　wall　at　the　bottom　of　the　garden；　and　confined　myself　for　this　once　to　that？　In　such　weather　I　would　be　able　to　wander　round　as　I　pleased；　without　the　least　risk　of　being　seen　by　or　meeting　any　cousins；　and　it　was　after　all　the　garden　that　lay　nearest　my　heart。　What　a　delight　it　would　be　to　creep　into　it　unobserved；　and　revisit　all