Even dear old mother is compelled to suppress her love for me.

Often she has pressed me to her breast only to thrust me away at the approach of footsteps.

By the way, Karl," continued Max, while preparing for bed, "Yolanda one day at Basel jestingly called me 'Little Max.'" "The devil she did," I exclaimed, unable to restrain my words.
"Yes," answered Max, "and when in surprise I told her that it was my mother's love-name for me, she laughed saucily, 'Yes, I know it is.'" "The dev-- Max, you can't mean what you say ?" I cried, in an ecstasy of delight over the news he was telling me.
"Indeed I do," he returned.

"I told her I loved the name as a sweet reminder of my mother." "What did she say ?" I asked.
"She seemed pleased and flashed her eyes on me--you know the way she has--and said: 'I, too, like the name.

It fits you so well--by contraries.' Where could she have learned it, and how could she have known it was my mother's love-name for me ?" "I cannot tell," I answered.
So! here was a small fact suddenly grown big, since, despite all evidence to the contrary, it brought me back to my old belief that this fair, laughing Yolanda was none other than the great Princess of Burgundy.