Hamilton thought there were few things so disagreeable as going to bed, excepting, perhaps, getting up again. He was incorrigibly indolent in this respect, and nothing but the most fresh and beautiful of mornings, aided perhaps by the transparent muslin curtains, which had admitted every ray of light from daybreak, could have induced him to get up and be dressed at six o’clock; and that, too, without any immediate object in view, for three or four hours at least must elapse before he could venture to intrude on “A. Z.” He was not a little surprised to find Crescenz and her sister already in the garden; but having no inclination for a renewal of the organ-loft scene, he turned towards a row of clumsy, flat-bottomed boats, sprung into one of them, and in a few minutes was far out in the lake, where he quietly leaned on his oars, and began to look about him.

Seon was originally built upon an island and received its name from this circumstance, as is quaintly enough recorded in the Introductio ad Annales Monasterii Seonentis, of Benonne Feichtmaejr, Ejusdem Monasterii Professor—“When God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually, he threatened the earth with destruction; and said unto Noah, ‘Make thee an ark,’ etc., etc., etc. So our blessed founder, Aribo, seeing in what unrighteousness mankind had again fallen, resolved also to build an ark, and to receive into it not only his own household, but all others who were willing to quit the wickedness of the world and save themselves from the deluge of sin. Accordingly he changed his castle called Buergel into a monastery under the seal of the holy patriarch Benedictus, and recommended the same to the protection of the holy martyr Lambertus. The monastery was then named Seon, as the letters composing this word being reversed form the name of Noes (Noah); and the monastery representing the ark appeared to float in the midst of the lake, a place of refuge for all willing to seek it.”

Of the original building of 994 nothing remains but the church, now converted into a cellar, and the cloisters,—the other parts having been consumed by fire in the year 1561. In the course of time, however, and even before the secularisation of the monastery, it had been found convenient to connect Seon with the mainland by means of a road, over which Hamilton must have driven the evening before. And now, when viewed from the outside, Seon much more resembled a middle-aged German castle than a monastery. This impression it made on Hamilton, too, as he watched the numerous groups of people who had begun to enliven with their presence the pretty garden extending from it to the lake.

Crescenz and her sister continued to walk up and down, talking earnestly, and so often bestowing a look on the “overgrown schoolboy,” that he felt convinced he was the subject of discourse. Their brothers soon after joined them, and a very outrageous game of romps ensued between them and Crescenz. Hildegarde still turned towards the lake, her eyes fixed on him and his boat. “Perhaps,” he thought, with the vanity inherent to very young men—“perhaps she regrets her rudeness to me last night. I like her all the better for not playing with those unmannerly boys; and at supper, too, I observed that, although strongly resembling her sister, she is infinitely handsomer!” He rowed to the landing-place, moored the boat, and approached her quietly; but it did not require long to convince him that he had not been in the least degree an object of interest to her, for she still gazed on the lake, though his bark no longer floated on its surface, and not even the sound of his voice when he spoke to her sister could induce her to turn round. He looked at his watch, and found that by the time he had breakfasted he might prepare to visit A. Z.—that is, learn what chance he had of making a useful or agreeable acquaintance. He inquired for the landlady, and found her in the kitchen sending forth detachments of coffee and rolls to the garden. To his great surprise and pleasure, she ordered his breakfast to be carried to the arbour, where the Countess Zedwitz and her daughter were breakfasting, saying it was the only place unengaged in the whole garden. With mixed feelings of anxiety and curiosity he followed. While it was being deposited on the table, he observed that a question was asked by a comfortable-looking dowager, and the answer seemed satisfactory, for she nodded her head and then looked towards him. He bowed, and was received with a good-humoured smile. “She knows me,” he thought, “and this is A. Z.” It did not, in fact, signify—but—he would have preferred the daughter, who, although not in the least pretty, had a merry expression of countenance, and looked so fresh that he involuntarily thought of the tub of cold water out of which she had probably sprung half an hour before.

“I fear, madame, you will think me an intruder,” he began, with an affection of diffidence which he was far from feeling.

“Oh, by no mean,” cried the elder lady, in English, nodding her head two or three times; “by no mean! You are an Englishman; I am very glad to have occasion to spick English. Man lose all practice in both! I estimate me very happy to make acquaintance with you.”

Hamilton assured her he felt extremely obliged—hoped, however, to prove that he had a better claim to her notice than his being an Englishman. This she did not comprehend, for, like most Germans who are learning English, she seldom understood when spoken to, and preferred continuing to talk herself to waiting or asking for an answer in a language which she knew by sight but not by sound. Accordingly, “We have a very fine nature here!” was the reply he received to an observation which he had intended to have led to an interesting discovery of his being the son of her Munich correspondent. “We have a very fine nature here!”

Hamilton looked puzzled, or she thought him a little deaf, for she spoke louder as she said, “A very beautiful nature!”

He bowed, and coloured slightly.

“Mamma will say, our prospects are very good,” said the younger lady, in explanation.

“Ha!—prospects!” he repeated.

“What you call lanskip—paysage? Is not good English? No?”

“Oh, very good English,” he answered, looking round him, prepared to admire anything or everything he could see. Now, they were in an arbour thickly covered with foliage in order to render it impervious to the sun’s rays, and the entrance being from the garden, there was no view whatever deserving the name of prospect. Hamilton knew not what to say, and was beginning to feel embarrassed, when the Rosenbergs luckily appeared and made a diversion in his favour. Crescenz and her sister advanced to meet their step-mother, who now entered the garden dressed in a most unbecoming dark-coloured cotton morning-gown partly covered by an old shawl thrown negligently over her shoulders, and her hair still twisted round those odious leather things used for curling refractory ringlets.

“Who is that?” asked the Countess, to his great relief speaking German. “Who is that person?”

“I believe her name is Rosenberg,” he answered; “she came from Munich yesterday.”

“Ah, I know. That is the person who screamed in the gallery last night.”

“No, mamma, it was one of her daughters who screamed.”

“Oh, one of her daughters! They are very pretty,” said the Countess, raising her double lorgnette to her eyes—“really very pretty! and I think I have seen them somewhere before, but where I cannot recollect——”

“Oh, mamma, I know where you have seen them; they were in the same school with my cousin ThÉrÈse, and we saw them at the examinations last year. Don’t you remember the two sisters who were so like each other? And as we drove home with the Princess N——, she said that one of them was the handsomest creature she had ever seen! I think, too, she said she had known their mother!”

“Not that person in the odious dishabille! You are dreaming, child!”

“No, no—their mother was noble—she was a Raimund, had no fortune, and married a nobody, when she was old enough to have been wiser; her relations never forgave her, but after her death they offered to educate these two girls for governesses; their father would not part with them; but when he afterwards married a rich goldsmith’s daughter, she immediately insisted on his sending them to school.”

“I believe I do remember something of this—most probably a sister of our friend Count Raimund, Agnes?”

“Mademoiselle’s name is Agnes,” said Hamilton, quickly. “Then, perhaps, you are the person who was so kind as to write me the letter which—” and he searched in his pocket for A. Z.’s letter.

“What!—what is that about a letter?” asked the old lady, hastily.

“Some mistake, mamma.”

“But he says you wrote to him, my dear.”

“No, mamma, I did not write to him; but I think it extremely probable that papa did. I know he wrote lately to an Englishman in Munich. He will be glad to see you, I am sure,” she added, turning to Hamilton; “for although he speaks English very tolerably, he finds writing it extremely difficult; and the little note in question occupied him nearly an hour. When you have breakfasted, I can go with you to his room.”

Hamilton pushed away his coffee-cup, and stood up directly.

“Agnes, Agnes!” cried her mother gravely, “you know your father is sweating!”

“Yes, mamma, I know; but papa wishes very much to see his English correspondent. You have, probably, just returned from Graefenberg?” she said, addressing Hamilton. “Have you no letter from Preissnitz?”

“Letters from Preissnitz! I have no letter except that which I received the day before yesterday from Count Zedwitz.”

“You wish, perhaps, to speak to papa before you decide on going to Graefenberg?”

“I—I have no intention whatever of going there, mademoiselle,” said Hamilton, who did not exactly know who Preissnitz was, or where Graefenberg might be situated; for ten years ago, Preissnitz’s name was little known in Germany, and scarcely at all in England.

“Well, at all events, you had better speak to papa: I know he expects to see you.”

“If that be the case,” said Hamilton, “I am sure I shall be very happy to make his acquaintance—I only feared the letter might have been intended for my father, as he has foreign acquaintances, and I have as yet none.”

“It is quite the same thing, I should think,” said the young Countess, as she led the way out of the garden. “You can let your father know that you have seen us here. Papa was only sorry that he could not receive you at home; but our house is not at present habitable, and——”

“Ah!” cried Hamilton, springing up the stairs after her, “that is exactly what he said in his letter.”

“Wait here until I have told him that you have arrived,” she said, tapping gently at one of the doors, which closed upon her immediately afterwards.

She did not return, but a tall, gaunt servant appeared to conduct him to Count Zedwitz’s apartment. On entering, he perceived that a figure lay on a bed, but so wrapped in blankets and covered with down beds, that nothing was visible but the face, down which the perspiration rolled copiously. A reading-desk was placed on the breast, and a long quill, tightly pressed between the teeth, served to turn over the leaves of his book. Hamilton would have required some time to discover the use of the quill, had it not been performing its office as he entered.

“I am rejoice to see you—very glad you have become my letter, and seem to profit by it. You are good on the feet again?”

“Thank you,” said Hamilton, rather puzzled by this address, and half-disposed to refuse the chair placed for him by the servant.

“You have been to Graefenberg?—No?”

“No.”

“You have recover without Preissnitz?”

“Recover!” repeated Hamilton; “I have never been seriously ill in my life, colds and all that sort of thing excepted—mere trifles, after all!”

“Trifles! well, you Englishmen have odd idea!—Rheumatism is trifle!”

“Gout is more common with us,” observed Hamilton, somewhat amused.

“Well, gout, chicagra, podagra, rheumatism, what you will, is no trifle at all! You have had the gout?”

“No; but I suppose I shall in time: it is hereditary in our family—my father has two or three attacks every year.”

“Your father! is it your father who has had the gout?”

“Yes, and I suspect my father is your correspondent, too. I really fear I am not the person you suppose me to be.”

“What! what, what do you mean?” he cried, endeavouring to raise himself in his bed, and looking precisely like a writhing caddice-worm.

“I mean that I received a letter the day before yesterday, inviting me to come here; the seal was a coronet, and it was signed A. Z. I arrived; made inquiries, and too hastily, it seems, concluded that Count Zedwitz, or one of his family, had written to me. Your daughter confirmed me in my error by saying that you had lately written to an Englishman in Munich, and wished very much to see him.”

“Hum, ha!—very odd!” murmured the Count, fixing his eyes sharply on Hamilton. “May I ask your name?”

“Hamilton,” replied the Englishman, with an ill-concealed attempt to repress an inclination to laugh.

“I have not the honour of knowing any one of that name,” said the Count, endeavouring, as well as his blankets would permit him, to look dignified. “I am surprised, sir, you did not perceive the mistake sooner!”

“So am I,” replied Hamilton, his rising colour betraying the embarrassment he endeavoured to conceal; “but every moment some remark of yours made me doubt again; besides,” he added, moving towards the door, “I must confess, I wished to hear something of this water-cure, which is quite new to me; I never heard of it until yesterday. However, I am extremely sorry for having forced myself upon your acquaintance, and can only regret that my correspondent had not written his name in full; from these initials, it seems, I have but a small chance of discovering the writer!”

“I don’t know that,” cried Count Zedwitz, suddenly changing his manner; “it is by no means improbable that the letter is from Baron Z—; his wife is an Englishwoman. I should recommend your seeing them before you give up your search. And—and,” he added—hesitatingly—“as you seem interested on the subject of hydropathy, I shall have great pleasure in lending you some books and giving you every information in my power about Preissnitz and Graefenberg. In the mean time, look over this little work—it is not necessary to be a physician to understand it. You will find here a description of Graefenberg, the establishment of Preissnitz, who discovered this most rational mode of curing all diseases; and, I doubt not, you will soon be convinced of the uselessness of physicians and apothecaries, and place, as I do, all your reliance on cold water. Read what is said about perspiration, cold water drinking, and bathing; read and judge for yourself. I shall see you at dinner-time.”

Hamilton received the book with expressions of gratitude which were really sincere. The happy termination of this interview made him feel that he had gained an acquaintance, who might, perhaps, turn into a friend, if he submitted to the ordeal by water.