got up some little games in which chance and thought and wit had their counteracting influence. Eleonora, for I must now at last mention her name,—the second daughter (her image will for ever be present to my mind),—a slim slight frame, delicately chiselled features, a bright eye, a palish complexion, which in young girls of her age is rather pleasing than disagreeable, as being a sign of no very incurable a malady: on the whole, her appearance was extremely agreeable. She seemed cheerful and lively, and every one felt at his ease with her. Soon, indeed, I may venture to say at once,—at once, on the very first evening, she made me her companion: she sat by my side; and, if the game separated us a moment, she soon contrived to find her old place again. I was gay and cheerful. My journey, the beautiful weather, the country—all had contributed to produce in me immoderate cheerfulness,—ay, I might almost venture to say a state of excitement. I derived it from everything, and imparted it to everything: even Ferdinand seemed to forget his fair one. We had almost exhausted ourselves in varying our amusements, when we at last thought of the "game of matrimony." The names of the ladies and of the gentlemen were thrown separately into two hats, and then the pairs were drawn out one by one. On each couple as determined by the lot, one of the company whose turn it might happen to be had to write a little poem. Every one of the party—father, mother, and aunts—were obliged to put their names in the hats. We cast in, besides, the names of our acquaintances, and, to enlarge the number of candidates for matrimony, we threw in those of all the well-known characters of the literary and of the political world. We commenced playing, and the first pairs that were drawn were highly distinguished personages. It was not every one, however, who was ready at once with his verses. She, Ferdinand and myself, and one of the
