When Hamilton returned to Seon he found there an addition to the guests he had left, in the person of Count Zedwitz’s son, a young officer who had come to spend part of his leave of absence with his family. His appearance was prepossessing, notwithstanding his very decided ugliness; for his yellow hair, impertinently degenerating into red in his bushy mustachios, nearly concealed a mouth of enormous proportions, and heightened the whiteness of his teeth of faultless purity, but unusually large and of irregular form. The almost flaxen eyebrows protruded far beyond eyes which were small and light-coloured, but full of intelligence; the nose thick, of indefinite form, and a forehead which would have delighted Gall, Spurzheim, or Combe, but from which a painter’s eye would have turned away to seek some more pleasing object. His figure was tall and well-proportioned, but, notwithstanding his youth, already denoted an inclination to stoutness.

Hamilton found him an agreeable companion; indeed, everyone seemed to like him, especially Mademoiselle Hildegarde, who, Hamilton imagined, received his unobtrusive attentions with undisguised satisfaction; nor was it long before he discovered a sort of avoidance of his society on the part of both sisters. Crescenz, indeed, looked at him sometimes, but the moment her eye caught his it was averted, and a blush was sure to follow. Hildegarde never looked at him at all. They whispered together continually, took long walks alone, and became every day more melancholy. In short, there was something mysterious in their manner which excited Hamilton’s curiosity, and he determined to see Crescenz, if possible, alone for half an hour, and question her on the subject; but this was not easily managed, for Hildegarde seldom left her side, and were she present there was no chance of hearing anything. He commenced a system of watching, which Crescenz unfortunately misinterpreted, while Hildegarde remained perfectly unconscious of it; he did not apparently interest her sufficiently to make her observe his movements; but Crescenz’s blushes increased daily, and even her sister’s presence could not prevent her from sometimes entering into conversation with him. He asked her once if Seon had disappointed her—if she were tired of it; and then, in a low voice, why she looked so sorrowful. A blush, a reproachful look, and eyes suddenly full of tears was the only reply he received. Hildegarde, who had partly heard the questions, drew her sister’s arm within hers and left him alone to think over all possible causes, but in vain; he then turned his observations towards her step-mother, but there he was completely at fault. She was very kind in her manner to Crescenz, while to Hildegarde she seemed to have increased in severity.

One day Crescenz descended to dinner with eyelids so swelled from crying that her eyes were almost closed, her sister so pale that Hamilton expected every moment she would faint; after a few ineffectual efforts to swallow, they rose suddenly and left the room together. Madame Rosenberg, who was sitting beside Major Stultz, made some hasty remark, and followed them. She had not, however, been absent more than a few minutes when she returned with Hildegarde, and pointing angrily to her place at the table desired her “to sit down there, and leave her sister in peace.” She obeyed, but made no attempt whatever to eat. Young Zedwitz, who had established a sort of right to sit beside her, endeavoured to begin a conversation; without raising her eyes, she said a few words in a low voice which at once made him desist, and he scarcely looked at her again during the time she remained at table.

It was a magnificent afternoon, and Hamilton was burning with curiosity which he had determined to satisfy by some desperate effort during the course of it; his dismay was, therefore, great, when he found himself seized upon by old Count Zedwitz and carried off to his room for a dissertation on the water-cure! As a reward, or rather punishment, for the exaggerated expressions of interest lavished upon cold water on a former occasion, a manuscript was confidentially produced, written by himself, intended for publication, and of which he proposed Hamilton’s making a translation for the benefit of his countrymen! He commenced slowly reading aloud, occasionally stopping to make alterations and corrections, while Hamilton gazed wistfully out of the open window at the sunny landscape, his thoughts wandering unrestrainedly to Crescenz and her sister. They would have gone out to walk, and he should probably not see them until supper-time. Zedwitz would, of course, contrive to join their party, as he was evidently getting up a serious flirtation with Hildegarde; he, for his part, rather preferred Crescenz, who he was sure he could persuade to give him a rendezvous—perhaps even in the cloisters! Five minutes—only five minutes without her sister—he composed the most appropriate speeches, and the running accompaniment to his thoughts, formed by Count Zedwitz’s manuscript, almost made him laugh in spite of himself and his annoyance.

At length the sound of gay voices in the garden beneath brought his impatience to a crisis; he sprang from his chair, placed his head in his hands, and declared he had such a violent headache that he must beg to defer the conclusion of the manuscript until the next day.

“Headache! My dear sir, if you would not think me unfeeling, I should say that I rejoice to hear it! I shall now be able to make a convert of you at once. Headache, be it nervous or rheumatic, can be cured by placing the feet in a tub of cold water, and rolling wet cloths round the head.”

“I think a quick walk would set me to rights in a very short time; and as I hear your son singing in the garden, perhaps I shall be able to persuade him to join me.”

“If you don’t like the foot-bath, try a little sweating in cloths—indeed, it will cure you—pray, try it.”

“My dear Count—my headache is of a very peculiar kind; I am subject to it, and have given it the name of ‘bored headache.’ I know from experience that nothing but a walk can cure me.”

“Bored headache! To bore—to penetrate—to pierce—to bore with a gimlet! You feel, perhaps, as if some one had been boring at your head,” and he suited the action to the words.

“Precisely—exactly. In such cases I require violent exercise——”

“But, I assure you,” he persisted, “the cold stupes would have the same effect; I should still, merely to convince you, recommend sweating in——”

“Excuse me this time,” said Hamilton, hurriedly, “and to-morrow, if you will have the kindness to read me your manuscript, I shall be able to appreciate its merits as it deserves.”

While the Count was taking off his spectacles, Hamilton, with his hand pressed on his forehead, left the room as if he were suffering tortures. It was fortunate that the old man’s rheumatism prevented his looking after him, as he ran along the corridor and bounded down the staircase into the garden! Young Zedwitz was gone, and his mother and sister were standing so near the door that, in the eagerness of flight, Hamilton stumbled against them. He apologised, and then asked for Count Max, whom he said he expected to have found in the garden.

“He was here a minute ago,” answered she, “but is gone to look for somebody or something; I did not quite understand what he said.”

“It is very unkind of Max not to walk with us,” observed the young lady, with some irritation; “he knows how dreadfully afraid I am of cows and dogs.”

Hamilton thought she looked at him as if she expected that he should offer to accompany her in the character of protector. This, however, he resolved not to do, and was in the act of retiring when the old Countess exclaimed: “Oh, Mr. Hamilton, if you are not otherwise engaged, perhaps you will accompany us in our walk? My daughter is so easily frightened that she cannot go any distance without someone to chase away the cattle.”

Hamilton felt doomed. The request had not been made in the most flattering terms, it is true, but he could not do otherwise than acquiesce. The thought that young Zedwitz was at that moment, perhaps, walking with the sisters, did not make him feel amiably disposed, and he was considerably out of temper when he commenced his walk. This could not, however, continue, for both his companions were agreeable; and though the old Countess suffered considerably from asthma in ascending the hills, she contrived, nevertheless to commence a conversation, as it appeared to Hamilton at first, in order to learn something of him or his family. Not, however, finding him disposed to be communicative, she desisted from anything but indirect observations, which rather amused him than otherwise, and then spoke unreservedly of her own affairs.

“They lived on one of their estates, in the neighbourhood of Munich, but they had spent the last two winters in the latter place, on account of their daughter. It had not agreed with the Count, and as her daughter was now braut (a bride), that is, engaged to be married, they should in future live altogether in the country. They had another residence in the mountains, near Baron Z—, which she would greatly prefer, but the Count fancied the mountain air increased his rheumatism. She supposed her son had told him all this, however.”

“Our conversation has been principally about Munich, and he has persuaded me to spend next winter there.”

“Were your movements so uncertain? Do your parents leave you completely at liberty?”

“Completely. I can spend the winter at Vienna, Berlin, Dresden, or Munich.”

The conversation was changed, and Hamilton was so pleased with both his companions that he was actually sorry when they reached Seon, though the walk had been long, and it was so late that the guests were assembling for supper.

“Where are my girls? Are they not yet returned?” asked Madame Rosenberg.

No one had seen them.

“They were with me the whole morning,” she continued, “and only went out half an hour ago to the church on the other side of the water. Perhaps Mr. Hamilton will be so kind as to call them to supper.”

“Let me go with you,” cried young Zedwitz, starting from his chair.

“Thank you—I can find them without your assistance,” he replied; and then added, maliciously laughing, “I know you have been lounging about this little lake all day, my good fellow, and must be as tired of it as a sentinel of his post.”

Zedwitz laughed too, but he was not so easily put off—he took Hamilton’s arm, and they sallied forth together.

“You were long on guard to-day, Zedwitz, from dinner-time until now!”

“How did you like being caught to drive away the cows? I saw you being led off.”

“At first I did not like it at all—afterwards, very much. I have taken a great fancy to your mother—still more to your sister.”

“My sister is the dearest little soul in the world. If you but knew her as well as I do! I am very sorry she is to be married so soon—her loss will to me be irreparable, and our house so intolerably dull without her, that I shall be under the necessity of choosing a wife with as little delay as possible.”

“Your mother told me she expects you will make a most desirable marriage.”

“With my ugly face?—that is not probable.”

“I understand from the Countess, that you, as well as your sister, were already engaged.”

“By no means—certainly not,” cried Zedwitz, with a vehemence incomprehensible to Hamilton; “joining hands for the purpose of joining estates is not at all to my taste.”

“I should suppose not,” observed Hamilton, carelessly; and a long pause ensued. At length Zedwitz observed, abruptly: “My parents are anxious for me to quit the army, and marry; and, yet, I am convinced, that when I propose doing so they will object to the person I have chosen. In spite of my ugliness, or rather, perhaps, on account of it, personal beauty has a value in my eyes beyond what it deserves. I could not marry an ugly woman—could you?”

“I have never thought much on the subject,” replied Hamilton, laughing. “My parents have strictly forbidden all such thoughts on my part for the next ten years at least.”

They now began to cross the shallow part of Seon Lake, on a narrow, wooden bridge, so narrow that it was inconvenient for more than two persons to walk abreast. When they had reached the slope leading up to the church on the other side, Hamilton suddenly stopped and asked Count Zedwitz what “Hildegarde had said to him at dinner which had so effectually silenced him?”

“She told me not to speak to her, as she could not answer me.”

“Was that all?”

“But she gave me some hope that she would tell me why on some future occasion, and I was satisfied.”

“There is some mystery in the family! Don’t you think so?” asked Hamilton.

“I am quite convinced of it. Those poor girls seem very unhappily situated. I really pity them.”

“I both pity and admire them,” cried Hamilton; “and moreover, I am exceedingly anxious to find out this same mystery. Let us start fair and see who will first obtain information.”

“Agreed.”

“My chances are but small,” observed Hamilton; “with me both the young ladies are shy, and I myself am still more so.”

“You shy!” exclaimed Zedwitz, laughing.

“What! You don’t believe me! You must have observed how I blush for the merest trifle.”

“Oh, yes—you blush, but it seems to be constitutional, however, for I never saw anyone of your age so self-possessed.”

“My dear Count, you quite mistake my character, I assure you—it is a sort of—anomaly; a mixture of modesty and assurance——”

“Assurance, perhaps—sometimes—the modesty I have never observed.” He stopped and pointed to the two sisters, who were sitting on the trunk of a prostrate tree in a neighbouring field, their hands clasped firmly together, and each separately exhibiting a picture of grief which, independent of the youth and beauty of the mourners, was interesting from the difference of its expression. Crescenz seemed quite subdued from excessive sorrow, her whole form drooped, and she wept in silence, the tears coursing each other over her youthful cheeks unrestrainedly. Hildegarde held a letter tightly pressed in her hand, and looked upwards. She might have been praying; but it seemed to Hamilton as if the eyes remained upturned to prevent the falling of the tears which had gathered in the underlids—an occasional almost imperceptible movement of the corners of the mouth, and an evident difficulty of swallowing, confirmed this idea.

“Beautiful creature!” exclaimed Zedwitz, enthusiastically.

Hildegarde stooped towards her sister, and, it seemed, whispered some words of comfort, for the other looked up and attempted to smile.

“Hamilton, let us return towards the lake; it would be cruel to take them by surprise. We must talk loud, or in some way give them notice of our approach.” He turned away as he spoke, and so effectually did he put his intentions in practice, that when they again approached the sisters, they were walking apparently unconcernedly towards the church, and on hearing that they were expected to supper, quietly led the way to the wooden-bridge. Zedwitz and Hamilton now commenced maneuvring; but as their intentions were similar, and the object not to engage the same person, they were almost immediately successful. Zedwitz seemed, indeed, at first determined that Hamilton should lead the way with Crescenz; but the latter soon gave him to understand that that would never answer, and after a few frowns, and shrugs, and shoves, he followed Hildegarde, who was already on the bridge.

Hamilton approached Crescenz and whispered hurriedly: “What is the matter? Why are you so unhappy? What on earth has occurred during my absence from Seon?”

“Nothing, nothing! Nothing has occurred which can in any way interest you,” she replied, walking quickly on.

“You are unkind, mademoiselle,” said Hamilton, slowly and reproachfully—“unnecessarily unkind. From the commencement of our acquaintance, short as it has been, I have felt the greatest interest in all that concerns you. I see you unhappy—wish to offer any consolation in my power—and am treated with disdain.”

“I did not mean to treat you with disdain,” said Crescenz, softening, and walking more slowly.

“Your sister is not so cruel to Count Zedwitz.” In fact, they were just then speaking rather earnestly. This had great effect.

“What do you wish to know?” she asked, gently.

“I wish to know the cause of your unhappiness. I wish to know why you avoid me.”

“That I cannot tell you so easily! You will hear, perhaps—but you will not understand what—that is—how—I mean to say why I could not refuse. I—I cannot tell you,” she cried, bursting into tears, and walking on so quickly that she had nearly reached her sister before Hamilton could say in a whisper, “To-night, at the foot of the broad staircase leading to the cloisters—may I expect you?”

“No, no, no!”

“There will be moonlight; at nine o’clock I shall be there.”

“Oh, no—not for the world!”

“The staircase is quite close to your room; grant me but five minutes only.”

Her sister looked round, and, to prevent further discussion, he added urgently, but looking at the same time with affected unconcern across the lake—

“You must come, or I shall spend the whole night in the cloisters waiting for you.”

It was in vain she now endeavoured to refuse; he was deaf to all excuses, and walked purposely so near her sister that she was obliged to give up the attempt.

Before they entered the house, Zedwitz whispered triumphantly: “I shall know all to-morrow morning.”

“And I to-night,” replied Hamilton.

“What? when? how? where?”

“That is my affair, not yours.”

“I shall find out, you may depend upon it.”

“I defy you,” cried Hamilton, laughing; but the next moment, heartily regretting his foolish boast, he thought for a moment of telling him his purpose, but the fear of compromising Crescenz deterred him, and soon afterwards perceiving him earnestly engaged in conversation with Hildegarde, he hoped he would forget all about the matter.

After supper, Madame Rosenberg, as usual, produced her knitting, and Hamilton began a listless sort of conversation with her, which lasted until her daughter had left the room; it suddenly, however, took a turn which rendered it to Hamilton interesting in the extreme. She had, according to her own account, a most particular fancy for all Englishmen. They were such agreeable companions; gave no trouble at all; she had now reason to know, for she had had Englishmen lodging in her house for the last three years. She had two furnished rooms, which she always let, and from experience she now knew that Englishmen were in every respect desirable lodgers. Need it be said that “on this hint” Hamilton had spoken, and that in a very short time an arrangement for board and lodging was concluded to their mutual satisfaction. It was then that she launched into praises of his nation, ending with the remark that nothing would induce her, now that her step-daughters were at home, to receive any but Englishmen under her roof. “They were accustomed to domestic life, to female society, and did not think it necessary to talk nonsense to every girl with whom they happened to be five minutes alone. Did he know Mr. Smith?”

Hamilton believed he knew two or three Smiths.

“I mean a Mr. Howard Seymour Smyth.”

“No;” Hamilton knew more Howards and Seymours than Smiths, he was happy in the consciousness.

“Perhaps you know Captain Black?”

“I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

“He was a most delightful person; lodged with us last year; dined, however, at Havard’s table d’hÔte. You will be the first who has actually become a member of the family, as I may say. I wonder what Rosenberg will think of the arrangement?”

“May I beg of you to write to him to-morrow on the subject, as I have already given a sort of commission to the Baroness Z— and——”

“Oh, dear! there’s no necessity for writing; I always arrange these things alone; you have nothing whatever to do with him!”

“In that case I may consider the affair as arranged,” said Hamilton, rising and going towards the side-table for his candle. She rose, too, and they ascended the stairs together.

“I shall do everything in my power to make you comfortable and at home in our house,” she said, when wishing him good-night.

As he entered his room, the great clock struck nine. He placed, with some natural trepidation, his candle behind the stove, and locked his door carefully, to prevent Zedwitz, should he come, from ascertaining whether he were there or not. “He will think, perhaps, that I am in bed and asleep if he get no answer,” was his wise reflection, as he dropped the key into his pocket, and commenced walking on tiptoe towards the place of appointment. A few moments’ thought convinced him that there was no necessity, whatever, for concealment, until he had reached the lower passages, where there were flower-stands, gardening tools, old doors, casks, and all sorts of lumber heaped up, as if on purpose to make places of retreat for gentlemen in his situation. He ensconced himself behind a spacious beer-barrel and waited patiently until he heard a step on the stairs. Keeping carefully in the dark, he whispered, “I am here, give me your hand.” But no hand was given; on the contrary, a scampering up stairs, three or four steps at a time, ensued, which was at first perfectly incomprehensible. Hamilton afterwards supposed that Crescenz had heard some noise in the corridor, and must wait for a better opportunity. Again he placed himself behind the friendly cask, and waited upwards of a half an hour. At the end of that time an odd, rustling noise among the lumber made him start; but muttering the word “rats,” he flung an old rake in the direction from whence it came, and all was still again. It had become so much darker that he now took up his post near the staircase, and soon after Crescenz appeared, looking timidly down into the obscurity. “I am here, do not be afraid; there is no one near,” cried Hamilton, softly advancing towards her.

“I have only come—to say—that—that I cannot come.”

Hamilton in vain endeavoured to repress a smile. “Well, come down the stairs, and at least tell me why!”

She descended a few steps.

“Well! why?”

“Because I have not courage; I am always afraid in the dark.”

“But it is not dark in the cloisters; there is the most beautiful moonlight imaginable! Come.”

“Would not to-morrow at six o’clock, in the garden, do as well?”

“I cannot hear you,” answered Hamilton, becoming suddenly deaf; “and you had better not speak too distinctly, as you may be heard by some one crossing the passage.”

“To-morrow morning in the garden,” she softly repeated, descending close to where he stood.

“I have been waiting nearly an hour!” was the answer which he gave, in order to change her thoughts.

“I could not help it; Hildegarde has only just fallen asleep.”

“We must not remain here, or we shall certainly be overheard. Come,” he whispered, drawing her arm within his.

“I cannot—I cannot—to-morrow before breakfast, or when you will; but not now. Let me go! oh, let me go!”

And he would have let her go; but the thoughts of Zedwitz’s raillery made him resolute. His first thought was to carry her off; but that appearing too strong a measure, he contented himself with holding her hand fast while pouring forth a volley of reproaches.

“And now,” he concluded with an affectation of reasoning, “now that you are so far, why retreat? Everyone is in bed; no human being in the cloisters. I ask but five minutes, but I would speak with you alone—unrestrained.”

And while he was speaking he had contrived to make her move along the passage. A moment after, they had reached the quadrangle, and stood in silent admiration of the calm seclusion of the spot. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound they heard; and the bright moonbeams not only lighted the monuments erected against the wall, but rendered almost legible the epitaphs of those whose tombstones composed the pavement.

He led Crescenz to a seat near the monument to the founder of the monastery, Count Aribo, and waited for her to speak; she had, however, no inclination to begin, but sat in a deep revery, looking fixedly on the ground; and, as it seemed, more inclined to be sentimental than communicative.

Hamilton, more conscious than she was of the impropriety of her situation, and fearing that they might be seen by some of the servants, at length exclaimed, with some impatience:

“Do not let us lose these precious moments, but tell me at once what has occurred.”

Crescenz became agitated, covered her face with her hands, but remained silent.

“For heaven’s sake tell me what is the matter?”

“I am very, very unhappy!” sobbed the poor girl.

“But why—why are you unhappy?”

“Because I—I am going to be married!”

“Married!—To whom are you going to be married?”

“To—to Major Stultz.”

“Major Stultz!—Why, this must be a very sudden business, indeed. Before I left Seon he seemed much more inclined to marry your sister than you!”

“Oh, of course he would rather have Hildegarde, because she is so much cleverer and handsomer than I am; but she would not listen to him, and called him an old fool!”

“I admire her candour,” said Hamilton.

“And then she got into a passion when he persevered, and slapped him on the mouth!”

“Slapped him on the mouth!”

“Yes, when he attempted to kiss her hand; at least he says so; and Hildegarde thinks it may be true, as she was angry and struggled very hard to release her hand. He told mamma that he would not marry her now if she were ten times handsomer, and a princess into the bargain!”

“She seems of rather a passionate temperament.”

“Passionate! yes, she sometimes gets into a passion, but it is soon over, and then she can be so kind to those she loves! No one knows her so well as I do, excepting, perhaps, papa, and he says, if she were not passionate, she would be faultless; with me she is never in a passion.”

“Perhaps because you yield implicit obedience to all her commands? But tell me why did not you follow her example, and refuse Major Stultz, if you did not like him?”

“He did not ask me, he spoke to mamma, and wrote to papa; and when all was arranged, I had not courage to refuse; and he is forty-six years old, and I shall not be sixteen until next year!”

“That is a considerable disparity, certainly.”

“I should not mind the thirty years so much if his face were not so red and his figure so stout. I hate red-faced, stout men!”

“If he could change his appearance to please you, I have no doubt he would do so,” observed Hamilton, smiling.

“Hildegarde also dislikes red-faced men,” she added, pettishly.

“Whatever Hildegarde says must be right, of course,” said Hamilton, ironically; “but I have not discovered that she dislikes Count Zedwitz, and he rather comes under the denomination red-faced.”

“Hildegarde says Count Zedwitz is very agreeable, and not in the least presuming.”

“And who does she say is presuming, if I may ask?”

“She says you are—or would be, if you were allowed.”

“I think she is wrong. And were she to meet Zedwitz here alone——”

“Hildegarde would never do such a thing—never! And I ought not to have come, either,” she cried, starting from her seat and looking anxiously round. Then, laying her hand heavily on his arm, and straining her eyes as if to see something more distinctly, she asked, in a scarcely audible voice, “What is that?”

“What?—I see nothing.”

“There—there—in the corner! The moon’s shining on it now—that figure.”

“Oh, that is a stone figure—a monument, or something of that sort. Let us go and look at it.”

“Not for the universe—I saw it move.”

“You fancied it moved; one can imagine all sorts of things by moonlight. Will you remain here and let me examine it?”

“Oh, no—you must not leave me! I—I think it may be something unearthly. Oh, why did I come here?—why did I come here?”

“Don’t be unnecessarily alarmed; I am convinced it is nothing but——”

“There, there—it moved again!” She grasped his arm and hid her face on his shoulder.

“Come,” said Hamilton, encouragingly; “let me take you to your room—to your sister.”

She trembled violently, but endeavoured to walk. The figure, however, seemed to possess the power of fascination—she would or could not remove her eyes from it; and though Hamilton assured her he remembered having seen it by daylight, and at first really thought so, he was soon unpleasantly convinced of his error. They saw the outline more and more distinctly every moment—could even distinguish the large folds of the drapery in the moonlight. Hamilton tried to hurry her forward; but at that moment the figure, slowly and stiffly raising an arm, pointed threateningly towards them. This was the acme. Crescenz clung to him in an agony of terror, and while Hamilton whispered to her, “For heaven’s sake, not to scream—to think of the consequences were she to be discovered,” she writhed as if in strong convulsions, gasped frightfully once or twice for breath, and then sank on his arm perfectly insensible.

Shocked beyond measure, but now convinced that someone had been amusing himself at their expense, Hamilton called out angrily, “Cease your mummeries, whoever you are—and see what you have done!”

The moonlight fell on Crescenz’s lifeless form while he spoke, and in a moment Count Zedwitz stood beside him. He endeavoured to exculpate himself by avowing that he had no idea of playing ghost when he had followed them.

“I don’t care what you intended,” cried Hamilton, still more angrily; “but I wish, at least, you had spared this poor girl such unnecessary terror.”

“I did not think of the consequences. It was very foolish—it was very wrong, if you will. But you must not think I was a listener; I declare most solemnly I did not hear one word of your conversation.”

“The whole world might have heard it!” cried Hamilton, impatiently shaking off the hand which Zedwitz had placed on his shoulder; “the whole world might have heard it. But what is to be done now? She shows no sign of life, and is as cold as a stone. Perhaps you have killed her!”

“Oh, no, she has only fainted; let me go for a glass of water.”

“Are you mad?” cried Hamilton, detaining him forcibly; “no one must ever know that she has been here with me—with us——”

“Oh, I thought I could——”

“I wish you would think rationally, and repair the mischief you have done.”

“Let us take her to her sister; she will never betray her, and will know best what means to employ for her recovery.”

And between them they carried Crescenz along the passage and up the stairs. Fortunately, the first door led to her room, and Hamilton desired Zedwitz to knock gently, lest other people in the neighbouring rooms might be awakened. But it was in vain he knocked; Hildegarde seemed to be enjoying what is called a “wholesome sleep”; and at length, finding their efforts fruitless, Zedwitz volunteered to go in and waken her.

Hamilton heard the sleepy voice change into a tone of alarm, the anxious questions, and finally a request that he would leave the room. He did so, and in less than a minute Hildegarde opened the door in a state of great agitation. While Hamilton laid Crescenz on the bed, Zedwitz struck a light, and Hildegarde then asked him earnestly to tell her what had happened.

“My odious cloak has been the cause of all,” he answered, evasively; “she saw me standing in the moonlight, and thought I was a ghost.”

“Saw you standing in the moonlight?—when?—where? Oh, go away, both of you,” she cried, vehemently, as the candle lighted her sister’s pale features; “go away, and leave me alone with Crescenz.”

They left the room, and walked towards one of the windows looking into the quadrangle. After some delay, Hildegarde appeared, and a dialogue ensued which Hamilton thought unnecessarily long, as he was not able to hear what was said. The moment, however, that he approached the speakers, the door was closed, and he was left to make his inquiries of Zedwitz.

“How is she?”

“Better, or quite well, I forget which; she fancied at first that she had been dreaming, but now she knows the contrary.”

“Hum! No doubt you exaggerated splendidly when explaining to Hildegarde just now!”

“Not I! I was thinking the whole time of that bewitching little nightcap, and how lovely she looked in it.”

“Pshaw! if you have any fancy for such caps, I recommend you to go to London. In any street you please, and at any hour, you can see half a dozen such caps on as many Bavarian girls, whose employment is to scream ‘buy a broom,’ and who are just the most good-for-nothing creatures in the world.”

“And how do you know they are Bavarians? I think it much more probable that they are Dutch girls.”

“In London people call them Bavarians; and I must confess they never interested me sufficiently to induce me to make inquiries.”

“Very likely; but when I tell you that Bavarians do not lightly forsake their country, that they are seldom so poor as not to have enough to live upon—our marriage-laws provide against that; that London is a long way from Bavaria, and the steam-packets make it an easy matter for Dutch girls to transport themselves there, you will also think with me that they are more probably Dutch than Bavarian.”

“How warmly you defend your countrywomen and their hideous caps,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “But, really,” he added, opening the door of his room, before which they stood, “really, the matter is not worth a dispute. The girls are Dutch, if you will have it so, but the caps are ugly, say what you will.”

“It depends so entirely on the wearer of the cap! For instance, to-night I thought that cap the most becoming thing I ever saw!”

“Perhaps you also prefer one foot in a slipper and the other bare.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the fair Hildegarde could only find one slipper in the dark, and pattered about with her bare foot, as if it were the most comfortable thing possible!”

“I did not look at her feet; but even if I had, I should only have admired her forgetfulness of self in her anxiety about her sister.”

“You are right, Zedwitz,” cried Hamilton, with unusual warmth; “quite right. And though I will not, cannot, say that I think the nightcap pretty, I must acknowledge that I admired Hildegarde to-night more than anyone I ever saw. She is superlatively handsome, and it is the greater pity that she is such a devil.”

“A devil! Are you raving?”

“Not a bit of it. I advise you to take care how you make advances to her; she will slap you on the mouth for the slightest misdemeanour.”

“Slap me on the mouth!”

“Not the smallest doubt of it. She buffeted poor Major Stultz when he innocently made her a proposal of marriage, until his face, from deep red, turned to the richest purple.”

“Nay, now I know you are inventing—joking.”

“Not so much as you think, I assure you. Her sister is my authority. She softened the recital in some degree, it is true, by saying that Hildegarde was not often in a passion, and never with her.”

Zedwitz seated himself at the table, drummed on it with his fingers, and looked at Hamilton as if he expected to hear more.

“Perhaps, after all,” said Hamilton, “she is only a little hot-tempered. I have heard it asserted that passionate people were always good-hearted—in fact, most amiable, when not actually in a passion!”

“Who would have imagined that?” said Zedwitz, thoughtfully; “and with such an angel’s face!”

“Never trust an angel’s face!” cried Hamilton, laughing. “My brother John, who understands such things, says that angelic-looking women are very often devils, and, if not, they are bores; and of the two I prefer a devil to a bore, any day—even for a wife.”

Zedwitz rubbed his hand across his forehead, and looked dissatisfied.

“So you think her ill-tempered?” he observed.

“I cannot exactly say ill-tempered; but I have already seen her in something very nearly approaching to a passion.”

“You!—where?”

“No matter. But she called me a fool, and stamped with her foot, until I ran away for very fright.”

“I dare say you had provoked her past endurance; and I have now had an opportunity of judging how shy and modest you are. Not that I mean to blame you for supporting Crescenz, as you did to-night, in the cloisters. You saved her, no doubt, from a severe fall, but you took very remarkable good care of her.”

“It was very natural that Crescenz should cling to me when she was frightened,” said Hamilton, seriously; “and equally natural that I should endeavour to protect her.”

“Oh, it was altogether extremely natural; only don’t talk any more nonsense about being shy. You were anything but shy at the foot of the staircase——”

“Were you there, too?”

“Not very distant from you, disguised as a rat.”

“If I had managed to hit you with the rake, all this scene would have been avoided.”

“Perhaps; but do you know that you invited me yourself to come? I did not know where you were until you said, in the most insinuating manner, ‘I am here—give me your hand.’”

“So you were the person who scampered up the stairs?”

“Yes, and scampered down at the other side, and found another way into the passage.”

“Well, I hope I shall not remain long in your debt, that’s all.”

“Oh, your anger is over for this time, I hope. Rather let us now swear an eternal friendship. The thing is possible, as we are not rivals.”

“Perhaps we may be, though—I rather took a fancy to Hildegarde to-night. Crescenz is almost too childish.”

“You are not serious, I hope,” cried Zedwitz, with what Hamilton imagined an affectation of alarm.

“I really don’t know whether I am or not. I am only trying to get up a sort of flirtation to make the time pass agreeably while I am studying German; for that purpose, in fact, one sister is as good as the other; indeed, Crescenz suits me, perhaps, better, because the affair will have a respectable termination when she marries Major Stultz.”

“Is she to marry Major Stultz?”

“So Hildegarde has not even told you that?”

“Not a word.”

“Well, let us open the window and smoke a couple of cigars in the moonlight, and you shall hear all about it, and have a full and true account of the boxing-match between Hildegarde and the gallant Major.”