The afternoon of the next day the betrothal took place. Hamilton had expected an imposing ceremony, but not one of the many persons assembled appeared to consider it as anything but an occasion for drinking wine or coffee and eating cake. Crescenz and her sister must be excepted; they both looked greatly alarmed; and when the certificates of birth, baptism, vaccination, and confirmation had been laid on the table, and the marriage contract read aloud and presented for signature, Crescenz fairly attempted to rush out of the room. She was brought back with some difficulty; and it was from Hamilton’s hand that she received the pen with which she wrote her name. A present of a very handsome ring from Major Stultz seemed in some degree to restore her equanimity, and a glass of champagne, judiciously administered by her father, enabled her to receive the congratulations and enjoy the jokes of her bridesmaids. As evening drew on, the pianoforte was put in requisition, and dancing proposed. Hamilton immediately engaged Hildegarde; he was in England considered to dance well, and was, therefore, not a little surprised and mortified when, after a few turns, she sat down quietly, saying he was a most particularly disagreeable dancer.

“You are the first person who has told me so,” he observed, somewhat piqued; for Englishmen are vulnerable on this point.

“Others have thought so, perhaps,” said Hildegarde, carelessly, and following with her eyes Crescenz and Major Stultz; the latter, forgetful of the hardship of his Russian campaign, and unmindful of the stoutness of his figure, was whirling round the room with a lightness which would have done credit to a man of one-and-twenty.

“How very well Major Stultz dances!” said Hamilton, when Crescenz and her partner soon after stopped near them.

“And you—why do you not dance?” asked Crescenz.

“Your sister says I dance badly.”

“I said you were a disagreeable dancer,” said Hildegarde; “other people may think differently; but I particularly dislike being held so close, and having——”

Hamilton’s face became crimson, and she left her sentence unfinished.

“Perhaps people dance differently in England,” suggested Crescenz.

“Most probably they do not waltz at all there,” said Major Stultz.

Hamilton explained with extraordinary warmth.

“Well, at all events—it is—and will ever remain, a German national dance; and, so I suppose, without giving offence, I may say that we Germans dance it better than you English. I have no doubt that you dance country-dances and Scotch reels perfectly, but——”

“I have never danced either the one or the other,” said Hamilton, with a look of sovereign contempt.

“Well, Francaise’s quadrilles, or whatever you call those complicated dances now coming into fashion here.”

Hamilton did not answer; he had turned to Crescenz, and was now insisting on her waltzing with him, that she might tell him the fault in his dancing. She murmured the words, “Extra tour,” which seemed to satisfy Major Stultz and then complied with his request. It was singular that Crescenz did not complain of being held too closely; she was not disposed to find any fault whatever with his performance; and it was with some difficulty that he induced her to say that there was something a little foreign in his manner, and that she believed he did not dance quite so smoothly as a German.

“Your sister’s personal dislike seems to influence her judgment on all occasions,” said Hamilton, glancing towards Hildegarde, who, still seated in the same place, was watching them with evident dissatisfaction.

“Hildegarde, come and help me to put candles in the candlesticks,” cried Madame Rosenberg; “we cannot let our friends grope about in the dark any longer.”

Hildegarde rose; as she passed Hamilton, she said, in a low voice—

“For personal dislike, you may say detestation, when you refer to yourself in future.”

“Most willingly, most gladly,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “I wish you to hate me with all your heart.”

“Then your wish is gratified; I feel the greatest contempt——”

“Halt!” cried Hamilton, still laughing, for her anger amused him. “I did not give you leave to feel contempt; I only said you might hate as——”

“Hildegarde! Hildegarde!” cried Madame Rosenberg, impatiently—“Why, what on earth is the girl about?”

“Quarrelling as usual,” muttered Major Stultz, shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, she is not quarrelsome!” exclaimed Crescenz; “you don’t understand her; she is right—quite right.”

“Right to hate me without a cause!” cried Hamilton, pretending great astonishment.

“I did not exactly mean—that is—I think—I believe—I am sure Hildegarde does not hate you or anybody,” said Crescenz, confusedly, and retiring hastily to that part of the room which seemed by common consent appropriated to the unmarried female part of the company. At this moment the door opened, and Madame Rosenberg, followed by Hildegarde and the cook, entered the room, carrying lighted candles. A loud ringing of the house-bell was heard, and the cook, having deposited her candles, rushed out of the room to open the door.

“I dare say it’s the Bergers,” said Madame Rosenberg, as she walked towards the pianoforte with her candles. “Better late than never. I’m glad she’s come, for she plays waltzes charmingly; and as such days as this do not often occur in a family, we may as well keep it up.”

Hamilton looked towards the door, and saw an elaborately dressed and extremely pretty person, with very long and profuse blonde ringlets, leaning on the arm of an elderly man with a protruding chin. His recollection of having heard something about her companion was brought more distinctly to his mind, when he saw Crescenz start forward and embrace her, while she eagerly exclaimed,—

“Oh, Lina! I have so longed to see you! so wished for your advice!”

After she had spoken with great animation to the Rosenbergs and other acquaintances, she turned to Crescenz, who, continuing to hold her hand, reproached her for having neglected her.

“My dear creature! I have been in Starnberg, or you should have seen me long ago. The Doctor came for me this afternoon, and I have not been more than an hour in town. On such an occasion I was obliged to make myself smart, and you have no idea how I hurried! Isn’t this dress a love? the Doctor’s choice—he bought it at Schultz, and surprised me with it on my birthday! Conceive my being nineteen years old!” she continued in a whisper, leading Crescenz apart; “I am really glad that I am married; I should have been obliged to wait an eternity for Theodor; he is now studying with the Doctor, visits the hospitals with him, and dines with us every Sunday! Heigho!——”

“Is not the Doctor jealous?”

“Jealous! oh, dear, no—why should he be jealous? If Theodor had been rich, I should have preferred him, of course! but a poor student!—the thing was absurd! And yet I did love him—with all my heart, too!”

“I can easily imagine it,” said Crescenz, pensively; “and in Seon, of all places in the world!” and she sighed very expressively.

“Why surely, dear, you did not find anyone at Seon with whom you could fall in love! I beg Major Stultz’s pardon, but—a—the company at Seon is a——”

“Oh, there were some very nice people there this year; Count Zedwitz and his family—his son, I am almost sure, proposed to Hildegarde, though she won’t acknowledge it.”

“Count Zedwitz! why, surely, Hildegarde would not be such a fool as to refuse such a——”

“Hush, dearest—it’s the greatest possible secret; and Hildegarde would never forgive me if she knew——”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said the Doctor’s wife, arranging a stray ringlet; “I don’t believe a word of it. Hildegarde would have talked if there had been even a shadow of probability of such a thing. As to her having refused him, that is out of the nature of things! I suppose, dear,” she added, shaking back her curls, “I suppose he turned to you when he was tired of Hildegarde? Did she frighten him with a fit of fury, as she did me the day I read the letter from her father, which she had mislaid in the school-room? Do you remember how she stormed and called me dishonourable, and said I was capable of any horrible act? I never forgave that Mademoiselle Hortense for not taking my part; but all the governesses were so proud of Hildegarde’s beauty, after her picture was painted, that she was allowed to do as she pleased.”

“Don’t talk of her,” said Crescenz, in a low voice; “I know you never liked her.”

“They called us the rival beauties at school, you know, which was quite enough to make us hate each other all our lives; but now that I am married, all rivalry has ceased. I have got a position in society, especially since the Doctor has been called in to attend the royal family, and——”

“You don’t say so,” exclaimed Crescenz, interrupting her.

“Yes, my dear, he is not exactly appointed, but when the other physicians were out of town, he was sent for to attend one of the ladies of the court, who had been obliged to remain behind from illness, and she promised to use all her influence for him; indeed, his practice is so extensive that he does not require anything of the kind—but then for appearance’ sake—and it sounds well, you know—it sounds well!” and she played with her pocket-handkerchief, which was trimmed with very broad cotton lace. “But I forgot, you were going to tell me that you had fallen in love with somebody at Seon; if it were not this Count Zedwitz, who was it?”

“Nobody,” said Crescenz, wiping her eyes with her little cotton handkerchief, ornamented with a few coarse indigo-dyed threads for a border; “Nobody!”

“I assure you, Cressy, as a married woman, I can give you much better advice now than in former days, when I was silly as yourself. You had better confide in me.”

“I have nothing to confide,” replied Crescenz, diligently biting the before mentioned blue thread border of her handkerchief.

“Well, if you don’t choose to be confiding, perhaps you will be communicative, and tell me who is that very tall, very young, and singularly handsome man talking to your father near the window?”

“That’s he,” said Crescenz, blushing.

“Who?”

“The Englishman.”

“What Englishman?”

“The Englishman that we met at Seon.”

“So!” whistled, rather than exclaimed, the Doctor’s wife.

“So!—hem!—a—some excuse for a little sentiment, I must allow, Cressy. How does he happen to be here this evening?”

“He is living with us; he boards with mamma this winter.”

“So! Can he speak German?”

“Oh, yes, very well.”

“Introduce him; I should like to know him.”

“I cannot.”

“You cannot! Why I could have introduced Theodor to all the world, and have ordered him about everywhere. Beckon, or call him over, like a dear.”

“Not for worlds!”

“I do believe you are afraid of him!”

“Afraid of him! What an idea!” said Crescenz, laughing faintly.

“Yes, afraid of him,” persisted her friend; “and yet he is not at all a person to inspire terror.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Crescenz; “I don’t think I am at all afraid of him. Why should I?”

“Why, indeed! See, Crescenz, he is looking this way now; just turn towards him and make some sign, or else I must apply to Hildegarde.”

“Oh, go to Hildegarde, if you like,” said Crescenz, half laughing; “but most probably they have just been quarrelling, and, in that case, she will send you to papa or mamma.”

“For that matter, I might as well go to your father at once, as he is standing beside him; for a married woman it would be of no consequence, you know; but, still, I should prefer the introduction to appear accidental. Men are generally vain—especially Englishmen, they say.”

“Oh, he is not at all vain, though Hildegarde insists that he is; and says, too, that he ridicules everybody. She took an inveterate dislike to him at first sight.”

“Well, that does surprise me, for his appearance is certainly prepossessing; but I think also he has a tolerably good opinion of himself: in so far I must agree with her; but why should he not? He is certainly good-looking, probably clever, and no doubt rich!”

“Oh, he is very clever,” said Crescenz; “even Hildegarde allows that.”

“Well, my dear, to return; will you introduce him or not?”

“Pray, don’t ask me.”

The Doctor’s wife shrugged her shoulders, shook back her blonde ringlets, and walked, with an evident attempt at unconcern, across the room.

“Hildegarde,” she said, tapping the shoulder which had been purposely turned towards her, “Hildegarde, will you introduce me to your Englishman? Crescenz says he is very clever; and you know I like clever people, and foreigners. But you must maneuvre a little, and not let him know that I particularly requested to make his acquaintance.”

“I never maneuvre,” replied Hildegarde, bluntly; “you might have known that by this time.”

“I did not just mean to say maneuvre; I only wished you to understand that you were to manage it so that he should not think I cared about the matter; in short, it ought to be a sort of chance introduction.”

“Will you by chance walk across the room with me?”

“Impossible!”

“Shall I call him over here by chance?”

“Call—no, not call; but look as if you expected him to come. He will be sure to understand.”

“He will not; for I do not expect him in the least. Crescenz could have told you that we are not on particularly good terms. You had better ask mamma.”

“Mein Gott! What a fuss the people make about this Englishman. I think you are all afraid of him. Crescenz certainly is.”

“I dislike him; but I am not afraid of him, as you shall see. Mr. Hamilton,” she called out distinctly, and Hamilton, though surprised, immediately approached her. Madame Berger shook her hand and the pocket handkerchief most playfully, and then took refuge on the sofa at some distance. Hildegarde followed, quietly explaining that Madame Berger wished to make his acquaintance, because he was a foreigner, and supposed to be clever. Hamilton smiled as he seated himself beside his new acquaintance, and in a few minutes they were evidently amusing each other so much that Crescenz observed it, and said, in a low voice, to her sister, “You were quite right, Hildegarde; Lina is a desperate flirt. Do look how she is laughing, and allowing Mr. Hamilton to admire her dress.”

“He is making a fool of her. Now, Crescenz, if you are not blind, you can see that expression of his face I have so often described to you.”

“I only see he is laughing, and pulling the lace of her handkerchief, which she has just shown him. I dare say he is admiring it, for it is real cambric, and very fine.”

“He is not admiring it; his own is ten times finer.”

“Indeed! I have never remarked that; how very odd that you should!”

“Not at all odd,” said Hildegarde quickly; “everyone has some sort of fancy. You like bracelets and rings, and I like fine pocket handkerchiefs.”

“Well, that is the oddest fancy,” said Crescenz, “the very last thing I should have thought of. I don’t care at all for pocket handkerchiefs.”

“Nor I for rings or bracelets,” replied Hildegarde.

“Come here, girls,” cried Madame Rosenberg; “what are you doing with your two heads together there? Come and help me to make tea. Hildegarde, there is boiling water in the kitchen. Crescenz, you can cut bread and butter, or arrange the cakes.”

Tea was then a beverage only coming into fashion in Germany, and, in that class of society where it was still seldom made, the infusion caused considerable commotion. Hildegarde and her step-mother were unsuccessful in their attempt; the tea tasted strongly of smoke and boiled milk. Everybody sipped it, and wondered what was the matter, while Madame Rosenberg assured her guests that she had twice made “a tea,” and that it had been excellent; the cook, Walburg, or, as she was called familiarly, Wally, must have spoiled it by hurrying the boiling of the water. Mr. Hamilton, as an Englishman, would, of course, know how to make tea; he really must be so good as to accompany her to the kitchen, and they would make it over again.

Hamilton agreed to the proposition with some reluctance, for he had found his companion amusing; but, as she proposed accompanying him, he was soon disposed to think tea-making in a kitchen as amusing as it was new to him. Madame Rosenberg, Hildegarde, Crescenz, and Major Stultz followed, forming a sort of procession in the corridor, and greatly crowding the small but remarkably neat kitchen where they assembled. If it had not been for the stone floor, it was as comfortable a room as any in the house; the innumerable brightly shining brass and copper pans and pots, pudding and pie models, forming the ornaments. Round the hearth, or rather what is in England called a hot-hearth—for the fire was invisible—they all stood to watch the boiling of a pan full of fresh water, which had been placed on one of the apertures made for that purpose. They looked at the water, and then at each other, and then again at the water; and then Wally shoved more wood underneath. Still the water boiled not; and Madame Rosenberg and Major Stultz returned to the drawing-room, Madame Berger having undertaken, with Hamilton’s assistance, to make the most excellent tea possible.

“It is an odd thing,” she observed, seating herself on the polished copper edge of the hearth, and carefully arranging the folds of her dress, “it is an odd thing, but nevertheless a fact, that when one watches, and wishes water to boil, it won’t boil, and as soon as one turns away it begins to bubble and sputter at once. Now, Mr. Hamilton, can you explain why this is the case?”

“I don’t know,” said Hamilton, laughing, “excepting that, perhaps, as the watching of a saucepan full of water is by no means an amusing occupation, one easily gets tired, and finds that the time passes unusually slowly.”

“All I can say is—that as long as I look at that water, it will not boil——”

“Then pray look at me,” said Hamilton, who had seated himself upon the dresser, one foot on the ground, the other enacting the part of a pendulum, while in his hands he held a plate of little macaroni cakes, which Crescenz had just arranged; “pray look at me. German cakes are decidedly better than English—these are really delicious.”

“Oh, I am so fond of those cakes,” she cried, springing towards him, “so excessively fond of them. Surely,” she added, endeavouring to reach the plate, which he laughingly held just beyond her reach, “surely you do not mean to devour them alone.”

“You shall join me,” said Hamilton, “on condition that every cake with a visible piece of citron or a whole almond on it belongs to me.”

“Agreed.”

Her share proved small, and a playful scuffle ensued.

Crescenz turned towards the window, Hildegarde looked on contemptuously. At this moment, Walburg exclaimed, “The water boils!” and they all turned towards the hearth. “How much tea shall I put into the teapot?” asked Madame Berger, appealing to Hamilton.

“The more you put in the better it will be,” answered Hamilton, without moving.

“Shall I put in all that is in this paper?”

Hamilton nodded, and the tea was made.

“Ought it not to boil a little now?”

“By no means.”

“Perhaps,” said Walburg, “a little piece of vanilla would improve the taste.”

“On no account,” said Hamilton.

“The best thing to give it a flavour is rum,” observed Madame Berger.

“I forbid the rum, though I must say the idea is not bad,” said Hamilton laughing.

Hildegarde put the teapot on a little tray, and left the kitchen just as her step-mother entered it.

“Well, the tea ought to be good! It has required long enough to make it, I am sure!” she observed, while setting down a lamp, which she had brought with her. “Crescenz, your father, it seems, has invited a whole lot of people without telling me, and he wishes to play a rubber of whist in the bedroom. I have no more handsome candlesticks, so you must light the lamp; the wick is in it, I know, for I cleaned it myself before I went to Seon, so you have only to put in the oil and light it.” She took Madame Berger’s arm, saying, “This is poor amusement for you, standing in the kitchen all the evening,” and walked away without perceiving Hamilton, who was examining the construction of the hearth and chimney with an interest which greatly astonished the cook.

“Oh, Wally—what shall I do?” cried Crescenz, “I never touched a lamp in my life, and I am sure I cannot light it.”

“It’s quite easy, Miss Crescenz; I’ll pour the oil, and you light those pieces of wood and hold them to the wick.”

Crescenz did as she was desired.

“Stop till the oil is in, miss, if you please,” said Wally.

The oil was put in, the wick lighted, the cylinder fixed, and Crescenz raised the globe towards its place, but either it was too heavy for her hand, or she had not mentally measured the height, for it struck with considerable force against the upper part of the lamp, and broke to pieces with a loud crash.

“Oh, heavens, what shall I do!” she cried in her agitation, clasping the pieces of glass which had remained in her hand. “What shall I do! Mamma will be so angry! I dare not tell her—for my life I dare not. What on earth shall I do!”

“Send out and buy another as fast as you can,” said Hamilton. “Is there no glass or lamp shop near this?”

“I don’t know,” said Crescenz, blushing deeply.

“Yes, there is,” said Walburg, “in the next street, just round the corner, you know, Miss Crescenz—but a——” and she stopped and looked confused.

“I must tell mamma, or get Hildegarde to tell her. Oh, what a misfortune! what a dreadful misfortune!”

“Go out and buy a globe, and don’t waste time looking at the fragments,” said Hamilton, impatiently to Walburg. “There is no necessity for saying anything about the matter.”

“But,” said Walburg, hesitatingly, and looking first at Crescenz, and then at Hamilton, “but I have no money.”

“Stupid enough my not thinking of that,” said Hamilton, taking out his purse.

“That is at least a florin too much,” cried Walburg, enchanted at his generosity.

“Never mind, run, run; keep what remains for yourself, but make haste.”

“Oh, indeed I cannot allow this,” said Crescenz faintly; “it would be very wrong—and——” but the door had already closed on the messenger.

“Suppose, now—mamma should come,” said Crescenz, uneasily.

“Not at all likely, as everyone is drinking tea.”

The drawing-room door opened, and the gay voices of the assembled company resounded in the passage.

“I knew it, I knew it; she is coming,” cried Crescenz;—but it was only Hildegarde, who brought the empty teapot to refill it.

She looked very grave when she heard what had occurred, and proposed Hamilton’s accompanying her to the drawing-room, as he might be missed and Major Stultz displeased; he felt that she was right, and followed silently. His tea was unanimously praised, but Madame Rosenberg exhibited some natural consternation on hearing that the whole contents of her paper cornet, with which she had expected to regale her friends at least half-a-dozen times, had been inconsiderately emptied at once into the teapot!

“It was no wonder the tea was good! English tea, indeed! Anyone could make tea after that fashion! But then, to be sure, English people never thought about what anything cost. For her part she found the tea bitter, and recommended a spoonful or two of rum.” On her producing a little green bottle, the company assembled around her with their tea-cups, and she administered to each one, two, or three spoonfuls, as they desired it.

In the meantime Mr. Rosenberg sat in the adjoining dark bedroom at the card-table—sometimes shuffling, sometimes drumming on the cards, and whistling indistinctly. Hildegarde had observed an expression of impatience on his face, and, to prevent inquiries about the lamp, she quietly brought candles from the drawing-room and placed them beside him.

“Thank you, Hildegarde,” said her father, more loudly than he generally spoke; “thank you, my dear; you never forget my existence, and even obey my thoughts sometimes.”

“Why, where’s the lamp?” cried Madame Rosenberg; “where’s the lamp? What on earth can Crescenz have done with the lamp?”

“Broken it, most probably,” said Mr. Rosenberg, dryly. “Hildegarde, place a chair for Major Stultz. She’s a good girl, after all, Major! a very good girl, I can tell you.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” replied the Major, bowing over the proffered chair.

“Go and see why your sister does not bring the lamp,” cried Madame Rosenberg impatiently.

As Hildegarde slowly and with evident reluctance walked to the door, she unconsciously looked towards Hamilton; he was listening very attentively to the rhapsody of sense and nonsense poured forth by the Doctor’s wife, who occasionally stopped to shake back, with a mixture of childishness and coquetry, the long fair locks which at times half concealed her face. Hamilton, however, saw the look, understood it, and gazed so fixedly at the door, even after she had closed it, that his companion observed it, and said abruptly: “Why did you look so oddly at Hildegarde; and why do you stare at the door after she has left the room?”

“If you prefer my staring at you, I am quite willing to do so.”

“You know very well I did not mean any such thing,” she cried with affected pettishness; “can you not be serious for a moment, and answer a plain question?”

“I dislike answering questions,” said Hamilton absently, and once more looking towards the door.

“Now, there you are again with your eyes fixed on that tiresome——”

He turned around, took a well-stuffed sofa-cushion, and, placing it before him, leaned his elbows upon it, while he quietly but steadily fixed his eyes on her face, and said:

“Now, madame, if it must be so, I am ready to be questioned.”

“You really are the most disagreeable person I ever met.”

“That is an observation, and not a question.”

“You are the vainest——”

Hamilton looked down, and seemed determined not to interrupt her again.

“Are you offended at my candour,” she added, abruptly.

“Not in the least.”

“Put away that cushion, and don’t look as if you were getting tired.”

“But I thought you were going to question me?”

“No, I am afraid.”

“Well, then I must question you,” said Hamilton, laughing. “Why may I not look at Mademoiselle Rosenberg, and why may I not look at the door, if it amuse me?”

“You may not look at the door, because in so doing you turn your back to me, which is not civil,” she replied readily.

“Very well answered; but now tell me why I may not look at Mademoiselle Rosenberg?”

“Oh, you may look at her, certainly; but—but—but—the expression of your face was not as if you disliked her.”

“And why should I dislike her?”

“I don’t know, indeed—only Crescenz told me that you often quarrelled with her; and as Hildegarde knows no medium, she most probably hates you with all her soul. You have no idea of the intensity of her likings and dislikings!”

“Indeed?”

“At school she took a fancy to one of the governesses, the most severe, disagreeable person imaginable; can you believe it? This Mademoiselle Hortense was able to do whatever she pleased with her; her slightest word was a command to Hildegarde. I have seen her, when in the greatest passion, grow pale and become perfectly quiet when Mademoiselle Hortense suddenly came into the room. It was, however, not from fear, for Hildegarde has no idea of fearing anybody; she is terribly courageous!”

“Altogether rather an interesting character,” observed Hamilton.

“Do you think so? I cannot agree with you. At school we all liked Crescenz much better.”

“Very possibly—I can imagine your liking the one and admiring the other.”

“As to the admiration,” said Madame Berger, looking down—“as to the admiration of the girls at school, that was very much divided: Hildegarde headed one party and I the other.”

“You were rivals, then?”

“We were, in everything—even in the affection of her sister. It was through Crescenz alone that I was able to tease her when I chose to do so.”

“But you did not often choose it, I am sure.”

“Oh, I assure you, with all her love for Crescenz, she often tyrannised over the poor girl, and scarcely allowed her to have an opinion of her own on any subject. Crescenz was a little afraid of her, too, at times. Cressy is the dearest creature in the world, but not at all brilliant; we all loved her, but we sometimes laughed at her, too; and you can form no conception of the fury of Hildegarde when she used to find it out. Crescenz has confessed to me, when we were alone, that her sister had often lectured her on her simplicity, and had told her what she was to do and say when we attempted to joke with her. Nothing more comical than seeing Crescenz playing Hildegarde.”

“Mademoiselle Rosenberg was considered clever?” asked Hamilton.

“Clever! why yes—as far as learning was concerned she was the best in the school, and that was the reason that madame and the governess overlooked her violence of temper; she is very ill-tempered.”

“That is a pity,” said Hamilton, “for she seems to have excellent qualities.”

“I never could discover anything excellent about her,” said Madame Berger, biting her lip slightly.

“Perhaps,” observed Hamilton, “she is more violent than ill tempered; and you say that she can control herself in the presence of anyone she likes.”

“But it is exactly these likings and dislikings that I find so abominable; for instance, she loves her father—well, he is a very good-looking, quiet sort of insipid man—she, however, thinks him perfection, and is outrageous if people do not show an absurd respect for all his opinions. What he says must be law for all the world! On the other hand, she dislikes her step-mother; who is nothing very extraordinary, I allow—rather vulgar, too; but still she has her good qualities. Hildegarde cannot see them, and will not allow Crescenz to become aware of them either! Is not this detestable?”

“It is a proof that she has strong prejudices; but——”

The door just then was opened, and Crescenz entered the room, carrying the lamp, and smiling brightly. It was heavy, and Hamilton rose to assist her in placing it on the table before the sofa where they sat.

“Thank you, oh, thank you!” cried Crescenz, with a fervency which Madame Berger thought so exaggerated that she found it necessary to explain.

“That dear girl is so grateful for the most trifling attention! It is generally the case with us all for a short time after we leave school.”

“There’s the lamp!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg, “and not broken! What do you say now, Rosenberg? I declare it burns better than usual;—the globe has been cleaned, eh, Crescenz?”

“Yes, Wally cleaned it a little; it was very dusty,” replied Crescenz, looking archly at Hamilton, and seeming to enjoy the equivocation.

Hildegarde blushed deeply, and walked into the next room.

Hamilton saw the blush, and looked after her, while Madame Berger whispered:

“Did you see that?—she is jealous of the praise bestowed on her sister.”

“Jealous! oh, no!” said Hamilton, still following her with his eyes.

“I beg your pardon!” cried Madame Berger; “I was not at all aware that I was speaking to an adorer; I really must go and tell her the conquest she has made.”

Perhaps she expected him to detain her, or she feared a rebuff from Hildegarde; for she waited a moment before she proceeded into the next room. Hamilton followed just in time to hear Hildegarde say:

“Pshaw! you are talking about what you don’t understand,” as she turned contemptuously away.

Madame Berger, to conceal her annoyance at Hildegarde’s imperturbability, turned to Crescenz, who had been placed next Major Stultz, at his particular request, in order to bring him luck. Her presence, however, not having produced the desired effect, he was told by Madame Rosenberg that those who were fortunate in love were always sure to be unfortunate at cards, which seemed to afford him great consolation; while Crescenz smiled and played with his counters and purse.

“I am sure, Crescenz,” said Madame Berger, “I am sure you are thinking what sort of purse you will make for Major Stultz this Christmas! You cannot allow him in future to use leather. I can teach you to make a new kind of purse, which is very strong and pretty.”

“Oh, pray do!” cried Crescenz, starting up; “you know I like making purses, of all things. When will you begin it for me?”

“To-morrow, if you like. I say, Cressy,” continued Madame Berger, in a whisper, “what makes Hildegarde so horribly savage this evening?”

“I did not observe it.”

“She is most particularly disagreeable, I can assure you. I attempted some most innocent badinage about Mr. Hamilton, and she——”

“Oh, about him you must not jest; she hates him so excessively——”

“Not a bit of it—and he does not hate her either.”

“You don’t say so?”

“I say so, and think so; and you will see that I am right. Why, he already makes as many excuses as your father for her ill-temper. If you had only heard him!”

“I did not think Hildegarde capable of playing double,” cried Crescenz, with emotion.

“She is capable of anything. Had you but seen the look of intelligence that passed between them when she left the room to inquire about you, and the lamp, it would have convinced you at once. And then he watched the door, and——”

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Crescenz, apparently greatly relieved; “I understand. No, Lina, this time I am right, and you are wrong, I know why he looked at Hildegarde, and at the door.”

“You do!—do you? Then, come and tell me all about it. By-the-by, I should like to have a long talk with you, to learn how matters stand. This Mr. Hamilton is uncommonly good-looking and amusing; I should like to know what brought him to Seon, and how it happened that he came to live with your mother, and all that. If we have not time to-night, you can tell me to-morrow, while you are learning the purse-stitch.”

An appointment was made for the next day, and the party soon after broke up.