Hamilton had gone out early to visit Zedwitz, and look at a horse recommended by Major Stultz. On his return, when walking towards his room, he heard some one singing so gayly in the kitchen that, as he passed the door, he could not resist the temptation to look in. Crescenz was standing opposite the hearth, a long-handled wooden spoon in her hand, her sleeves tucked up, and her round, white arms embellished with streaks of smut and flour; while a linen apron, of large dimensions, preserved the greater part of her dress from injury. Her face was flushed, partly from heat, but more from pleasure. As soon as she perceived Hamilton in the doorway, she at once ceased singing, laughed merrily, and invited him to enter. Now to this kitchen Hamilton had taken rather a fancy; he thought it by many degrees the best furnished room in the house; in fact, it was a pretty and cheerful apartment, and kept with a neatness common in Germany, where it is usual to see the female members of the burghers’ families employed in culinary offices.

“I have got my first lesson in cookery to-day,” she exclaimed joyfully; “and I have assisted mamma to make a tart, and you see I am cooking these vegetables,” she added, plunging her wooden spoon into one of the pots.

“Oh, yes, miss,” cried the cook, “that’s the soup, and the noodles will be all squashed if you work them up after that fashion.”

“Well, this is the sauer-kraut,” she said, eagerly drawing one of the saucepans towards her; “this is the sauer-kraut.”

“I could have told you that myself,” cried Hamilton, laughing; “the smell is too odious to admit of a doubt.”

“But the taste is very good,” said Crescenz.

“I cannot agree with you; taste and smell are horrible in the extreme.”

“I never heard of anyone who did not like sauer-kraut,” said Crescenz, with some surprise; “do people never make it in England?”

“I never saw it, excepting at the house of a friend who had been long ambassador at one of the German courts, and then it was handed about as a sort of curiosity.”

“How odd! England seems to be altogether different from Germany?” she half asked, while shaking her head inquiringly.

“The difference is in many things besides the eating or not eating of sauer-kraut,” answered Hamilton; “but as you are such a famous cook, I must beg you to give me something else to-day, for I cannot eat your kraut.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Crescenz delightedly; “Wally, what shall we cook for Mr. Hamilton? I am sure I never thought I should have liked this cooking so much!” As she spoke, she with difficulty repressed an inclination to dance about the kitchen.

“Indeed, as you are learning it, Miss Crescenz,” said Walburg, “it must be very agreeable. To think that you will so soon have a house of your own, and a rich husband who will let you have everything you like to cook. Tarts and creams every day. The Major knows what’s good, or I am greatly mistaken.”

This speech completely sobered Crescenz; had Hamilton not been present she might have been loquacious; but she now looked confused, and turned to leave the kitchen, saying it was time to wash her hands for dinner.

“But I thought you were going to find me a substitute for the sauer-kraut.”

“Wally will send in something,” she answered, rubbing her arm with her apron to avoid looking up as she walked into the passage. Hamilton was so near to her as she entered her room that a feeling of politeness prevented her from shutting the door, and he saw Hildegarde sitting at a small deal table between her brothers Fritz and Gustle; a few books and a slate were before her, and as the door opened she was returning a book to the former, with the remark, “This will never do, Fritz. You have not learned one word of your lesson!”

“Kreuz! Himmel! Saperment!” exclaimed Fritz, pitching the book up to the ceiling; “this is exactly too much! when a fellow has been all the morning at school, and comes home for an hour or so to eat and amuse himself, to be set down in this way to learn French. I tell you what, Hildegarde, I shall begin to hate the sight of you if you plague me with these old grammars.”

“What shall I do with him?” asked Hildegarde, appealing to her sister.

“Fritz, learn your lesson—there’s a love!” interposed Crescenz; “see what a good boy Gustle is!” and she carelessly placed her hand on the shoulder of the latter, who was industriously rolling the leaf of his book into the form of a trumpet, and yawning tremendously.

“I will give up all idea of ever entering the cadet corps, or ever being an officer,” cried Fritz, kicking the book as it lay upon the ground, “rather than write these odious exercises and listen to Hildegarde’s long explanations.”

“But think of the sword and the uniform, Fritz,” said Crescenz, coaxingly.

“Donner und Doria!—what is the use of a sword and uniform, when I must learn vocabulary and write French exercises?”

“Come, Fritz,” cried Hildegarde, authoritatively, “let me hear no more of this absurd swearing; it does not at all become a boy of your age. If you will not learn your lesson, I can, at least, correct your exercise.”

She stretched out her hand for the slate. Fritz anticipated her, seized and flung it up in the air, as he had done the grammar; but it did not fall so harmlessly. Hamilton, who had been standing at the open door, rushed forward, but was too late to prevent its descending with considerable force upon her temple, where it made a wound, from which the blood instantly began to trickle in large dark drops. Hildegarde started up angrily, while Fritz, after the first moment of dismay had passed, ran towards her, and throwing his arms round her, exclaimed, “Forgive me, forgive me—indeed I did not intend to hurt you.”

“If papa has come home from his bureau,” said Crescenz, preparing to leave the room, “I’ll go this moment and tell him.”

“Stay,” cried Hildegarde, hastily; “he says he did not do it on purpose; and after all, I am not much hurt. You must not tell papa or mamma either.”

“Well, you certainly are the best fellow in the world, Hildegarde,” cried Fritz. “I declare I would rather be cuffed by you than kissed by Crescenz.”

“And cuffed you would have been, had you been near enough,” said Hildegarde, laughing, while she poured some water into a basin.

“Mamma will be sure to see the cut, and ask how it happened,” said Crescenz.

“I can easily hide it under my hair when it has stopped bleeding.”

“Now just for that, Hildegarde,” cried Fritz, “I promise to learn as many lessons as you please for the next fortnight.”

Madame Rosenberg’s step and the jingling of her keys alarmed them all. Hamilton turned to meet her in the passage, saying, “Can I speak to you for five minutes?”

“To be sure you can, and longer, if you like,” she replied, hooking her keys into the string of her apron. “Just let me look how things are going on in the kitchen, and I am at your service as long as you please. Put a cover on that pot, Walburg, and tell Miss Crescenz not to forget the powdered sugar for the tart, and the apples for the boys’ luncheon. And now,” she said, turning to Hamilton, and leading the way to her room, “what have you got to say? You look so serious that I suspect you are going to tell me that you dislike your rooms, as they look into a back street, and are near a coppersmith’s. Captain Black left me for that reason, although I told him he could look out of the drawing-room windows as much as he pleased, and receive all his visitors there. I could not make the coppersmith leave his shop, you know; though this much I must say, that in winter the nuisance is less felt than in summer, when the workmen, during the fine weather, hammer away all day in the lane, but in winter they work in the house, and shut the doors, so that they are scarcely heard at all.”

“I have slept too soundly to hear the coppersmiths,” said Hamilton, smiling; “and during the day I have been too seldom in my room to be disturbed by them. In fact, I find so much to amuse—I mean to say, so much to interest me as a foreigner in your house, that I do not think half a dozen smiths could induce me to leave you at present.”

“I am glad to hear it, for I like you very much, and so does Rosenberg.”

“Then I hope you will not be offended if I request to have wax candles in my room, and—a—fresh napkin every day,” said Hamilton, with some embarrassment.

“This can easily be managed,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Neither Mr. Smith nor Captain Black ever asked for wax candles; but I suppose you have been brought up expensively. Now, don’t you think spermaceti candles would do just as well for a young man of your age—such candles as you may have seen in my silver candlesticks for company? Of course, I only mention this on your account.”

“You are very kind. I shall be quite satisfied with spermaceti—but I have still something to request.”

“I can save you the trouble,” said Madame Rosenberg, interrupting him. “You are not satisfied with your dinner, and wish to go to a table d’hÔte.”

“By no means!” cried Hamilton, eagerly. “There you wrong me. I do not in the least care what I eat.”

“But, indeed,” said Madame Rosenberg, “I don’t think it would be a bad plan were you to do so, after all, for you see the girls must learn to cook, and things will be spoiled sometimes. It is quite enough to have Rosenberg discontented, without——”

“Oh, I promise never to be discontented,” said Hamilton, laughing good-humouredly. “You have no idea how indifferent I am on this subject.”

“I must say, Crescenz seems to have great taste for cookery,” observed Madame Rosenberg, complaisantly; “very great taste indeed; but I rather expect to find that Hildegarde has no talent that way. I suspect we shall often have burned cakes and spoiled pudding when her turn comes. But you were going to say something else, I believe.”

“I was going to say, that I have been looking at horses this morning which I feel greatly disposed to purchase, if I were sure of finding a stable near this, and a respectable groom.”

“Why, how lucky!” cried Madame Rosenberg. “There is now actually a stable to let in this house; the new first floors don’t keep horses, so you can have it all to yourself; and old Hans asked me only yesterday if I could not recommend his son to some one who wanted a groom or coachman! I will go down with you at once, and look at the stable, and you can speak to old Hans about his son.”

The arrangements were soon completed, and as they ascended the stairs together, they met two very well-dressed women, who bowed civilly, but distantly to Madame Rosenberg. When they had passed, she observed to Hamilton—

“The new lodgers for the first floor; they come on the 29th of this month, and have been looking at their apartments, which are being papered and painted. On the second floor we shall find our landlord, who has the warehouse below stairs, as he has six or eight children, and they make a tremendous noise; I am better pleased to live above than below them, though it is not so noble.”

After dinner, Hamilton, finding himself alone with Crescenz in the drawing-room, insisted on her giving him a lesson in German waltzing; she had just completed her instructions, and they were whirling around the room for the first time when the door was opened, and Hildegarde, having looked in, closed it again without speaking.

“There, now!” cried Crescenz, walking with a look of great vexation towards the open window; “was there ever anything so provoking! and after our explanation last night, too, but she really requires too much!”

“What does she require?” asked Hamilton, taking possession of the other half of the window, and leaning on one of the cushions, which, as usual in Germany, were conveniently placed for the elbows of those who habitually gazed into the street. “What does she require?”

“That I should never, for one moment, forget that I have promised to marry Major Stultz. I know quite well that she disapproves of my having danced with you.”

“And if you were to go to a ball now, would you not be at liberty to dance with whomsoever you pleased?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Then, why not with me?”

“Oh, because—because—she knows that—I—that you—”

“In fact,” said Hamilton, “you have told her of my inexcusable conduct the day we were on the alp.”

“No,” replied Crescenz, blushing deeply, “I have only told her that you cannot marry without your father’s consent—that the younger sons of English people cannot marry—just what you told me yourself.”

“The recollection of that day will cause me regret as long as I live,” said Hamilton, blushing in his turn; “thoughtless words on such a subject are quite unpardonable. I hope you have forgotten all I said!”

“I cannot forget,” said Crescenz, looking intently into the street to hide her emotion—“I cannot forget—it was the first time I had ever heard anything of that kind, and was so exactly what I had imagined in every respect.”

Hamilton bit his lip, and replied gravely: “It was the novelty alone which gave importance to my words; I am convinced, had you considered for a moment, you would have laughed at me as I deserved. Major Stultz must often have said——”

“Major Stultz,” said Crescenz, contemptuously, “never speaks of anything but how comfortably we shall live together, and what we shall have for dinner, and how many servants we shall be able to keep, and all those sorts of things, which make it impossible to forget one year of his age, or one bit of his ugliness.”

“He is a very good-natured man,” said Hamilton, “and Zedwitz told me, has been a very distinguished officer.”

“You are just beginning to talk like Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz, impatiently, “and from you, who are the cause of my unhappiness, I will not bear it.”

“The cause of your unhappiness!” repeated Hamilton, slowly; “if I really could believe that possible, nothing would induce me to remain an hour longer in this house.”

“Oh, no,” cried Crescenz, hastily, “no! I did not mean what I said. Oh, no! you must have seen that I am not unhappy! I—I—am very happy,” and she burst into tears as she spoke.

“Well, this is a punishment for thoughtlessness!”—exclaimed Hamilton, starting from his place at the window, and striding up and down the room. “Surely, surely, such vague expressions as mine were did not deserve such a serious construction!”

“Vague expressions,” repeated Crescenz, looking up through her tears—“serious construction? Did you not mean what you said?”

“By heaven! I don’t know what I said, or what I meant,” cried Hamilton, vehemently.

Crescenz’s sobs became frightfully audible.

“Crescenz—forgive me,” he said hastily; “once more I ask your pardon, and entreat of you to forget my folly. Let this subject never again be mentioned, if you would not make me hate myself.”

“But,” sobbed Crescenz, “but tell me, at least, that you were not, as Hildegarde said, making a fool of me. Tell me, oh, tell me, that you love me, and I am satisfied.”

“You—you do not know what you are saying,” cried Hamilton, involuntarily smiling at her extreme simplicity. “You are asking me to repeat a transgression which I most heartily repent. Situated as you are, such a confession on my part, now deliberately made, would be little less than—a crime.”

“You mean because I am betrothed!”

He was spared an answer by Hildegarde’s entrance with a small tray and coffee-cups. It was in vain that Crescenz turned to the window to conceal her tears; Hildegarde saw them, and, turning angrily to Hamilton, exclaimed:

“This is most unjustifiable conduct—dishonourable——”

“Oh, stop! Hildegarde!” cried Crescenz, beseechingly: “Pray stop! You are, as usual, doing him injustice, and misunderstanding him altogether.”

“Do not attempt a justification,” cried Hamilton, impatiently; “she will not believe you. And,” he added in a whisper, “in fact, I do not deserve it.”

Walburg interrupted them by half opening the door, and informing them mysteriously, that an officer was without who had asked for Mr. Hamilton.

“Show him into my sitting-room, and say I shall be with him in a moment.”

“My visit is only partly intended for you, Hamilton,” said Zedwitz, entering the room. “I wish also to pay my respects to Madame Rosenberg.”

He had scarcely time to glance towards Hildegarde before she left the room, followed by her sister.

“The young ladies are not particularly civil to you,” observed Hamilton, seating himself on the sofa.

“Why, you did not expect them to remain here with us, did you?”

“To be sure I did.”

“I did not, but I expect them to return with their mother.”

Crescenz did. Hildegarde did not. And in consequence Zedwitz’s visit to Madame Rosenberg was very short, and he soon adjourned to Hamilton’s room.

“Why, what’s this?” cried Madame Rosenberg, peeping into the coffee-pot. “I do declare, Mr. Hamilton has forgotten to drink his coffee!”

“Let me take it to him,” said Crescenz, advancing towards the table.

“You will do no such thing,” said her step-mother, waving her hastily back. “No such thing—and I think—that is, the Major—but it is not necessary to explain. Call Hildegarde.”

Hildegarde came and was desired to carry the tray to Hamilton’s room.

“May I not send Walburg?”

“You may not, because I have sent her on an errand, and the coffee is too cold to be kept waiting until her return, now that the fire is out in the kitchen.”

“But—but——” hesitated Hildegarde, “Mr. Hamilton is not alone.”

“Count Zedwitz is in his room, but he won’t bite you, so go at once, and don’t be disobliging.”

Half an hour afterwards Hamilton was in the corridor, looking for his cane, which the children had mislaid. He turned into the nursery, and while rummaging there, Madame Rosenberg joined him, and hoped he had not found his coffee too cold.

“Coffee! no—yes! When, where did I drink it?”

“In your own room,” replied Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “Your memory must be very short; I sent it to you by Hildegarde, about half an hour ago.”

He looked inquiringly towards Hildegarde. She raised her eyes slowly from her work, and looking at him steadily and gravely, said in French:

“I threw it out of the window rather than take it to you.”

“Next time I advise you to drink it,” said Hamilton, laughing, as he left the room with Zedwitz. While descending the stairs, he observed:

“Well, that is the oddest girl I ever met—perfectly original. You have no idea how she amuses and interests me.”

“I can easily imagine it,” said Zedwitz, dryly.

“But you can not imagine how intensely she hates me.”

“That was what you desired, if I remember rightly; and for your sake I hope you continue as indifferent as formerly.”

“Not exactly; I believe I rather feel inclined to like her unpolished sincerity and straightforward vehemence; she really would be charming sometimes, if she were a little less quarrelsome.”

“I never found her quarrelsome,” said Zedwitz.

“Of course not, when you were enacting the part of adorer. That makes all the difference in the world! But what are you looking at?” asked Hamilton, seeing his companion stop short at the street-door. “I see nothing but a couple of officers lounging about the windows of that brazier’s shop opposite, which cannot contain anything particularly interesting, I should think.”

“Did you think they were admiring the coffee-pots and candlesticks?” asked Zedwitz. “That’s only a feint—I saw them looking up at the Rosenberg windows. It is a regular window parade, and they have been here nearly an hour; for I saw them in the street, as I entered the house. Let us cross over and see whether it be intended for Hildegarde, or Crescenz.”

They crossed the street, looked up, and saw Madame Berger sitting at the window, teaching Crescenz the promised pretty and strong purse-stitch. Although the latter appeared extremely intent on her work, she was evidently aware of what was passing in the street, for, as Zedwitz and Hamilton saluted, she bowed and blushed deeply.

“She, at least, has not yet learned to play unconscious,” observed Zedwitz, laughing; “Madame Berger can give her some instruction.”

“Do you know Madame Berger?” asked Hamilton.

“Of course; her husband is our physician. She is very pretty, and the greatest coquette in Christendom. I say, Raimund, what are you admiring in that shop?” said Zedwitz, stopping suddenly opposite the brazier’s and addressing one of the officers.

“The kitchen utensils, Max! I shall soon be obliged to purchase such things, and they have a kind of mysterious interest for me now.”

“You don’t mean to say that you are going to keep house—going to be married?”

“My father says so, which is much more to the purpose,” replied Raimund.

“And who is the happy woman destined to make you a respectable member of society?”

“They tell me she lives in that house,” replied Raimund, pointing to the one they had just left.

“The third story?” asked Zedwitz, quickly.

“No, Max, for a wife I do not look so high,” replied the other, ironically.

“And when may I offer my congratulations?”

“Not just now, if you please, for, as I have never yet spoken to the lady, something might occur to prevent the thing; but I have very nearly made up my mind.”

Zedwitz laughed and walked on with Hamilton. “I hope he has told the truth,” he said, musingly; “I hope he has told the truth, for I should be very sorry if he made his way into the Rosenberg family. He is very clever, but a great reprobate; has already seduced two girls of respectable connections, and is not ashamed to boast of his success.”

“Were there no fathers, no brothers, no cousins, to compel him to make reparation?” asked Hamilton.

“As it happened, there were none,” replied Zedwitz; “but even if there had been, he has not the caution-money, and could not marry. If he were serious just now, I suppose his father has discovered some rich partie for him, and that he will succeed, I do not for a moment doubt. He pretends to have a regular system of seduction, which consists in several gradations of improper books—it is disgusting to hear him descant on the subject.”

“But he will carefully avoid anything of that kind with his future wife?” said Hamilton.

“I was not thinking of his wife, for I do not know her; I fear for the Rosenbergs—Hildegarde would be sure to attract him.”

“He would, however, have no chance of success in that quarter, I am sure,” said Hamilton.

“It is hard to say; her nature is passionate, and I should be sorry to see her an object of attention to such a man. The fact is, I find it impossible to forget her, and as long as I know her to be free, I cannot cease to indulge hopes that she may eventually be mine. What I most apprehend is a sudden and violent passion on her part for some person as yet, perhaps, unknown; for I believe her capable of loving desperately.”

“And you very naturally wish to be the object of this desperate love? But how are you to obtain your father’s consent to your union?”

“Of that I have no hope whatever; but as I am an only son, I have every chance of pardon were I once married. My mother’s opposition is much less violent, but quite as determined as my father’s, and the astonishment of both was indescribable when I confessed that I had been refused without explanation or chance of recall. All my hopes are now centred in my sister, who is a dear, good little soul, and has promised to assist me when she can. By-the-by, she made a remark which may, perhaps, interest you.” Zedwitz stopped and looked very hard at Hamilton.

“Pray let me hear it.”

“She said she was sure I should not have spoken in vain had not Hildegarde loved another——”

“Well, that was your own modest idea, was it not?” said Hamilton, interrupting him.

“Yes; but it was not my idea that you were the object of her preference.”

Hamilton laughed.

“Perhaps you are already aware of it?” asked Zedwitz, growing very red.

“No, indeed,” replied Hamilton, trying to look serious, “I am only amused at your sister’s strong imagination; were she, however, to see us together, and hear us speak, she would soon think differently.”

“You forget that my sister was at Seon, and had opportunities of making observations.”

“But she is not aware how desperately we quarrel; she does not know——”

“I have told her all that, and she insists that Hildegarde likes you without being herself conscious of it.”

“But I assure you she has told me more than once that she hates me.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Zedwitz, dryly, and immediately after he changed the subject.

This conversation, notwithstanding the little impression it had apparently made on Hamilton, took complete possession of his thoughts, as he walked home late in the evening. However incredulous he might at first have felt, the idea was too flattering to his vanity to be lightly abandoned; and no sooner had he admitted the possibility, than it became probability: nay, almost certainty. It is extraordinary what a revolution these reflections made in his feelings. Hildegarde was so remarkably handsome that he had been compelled to admire her person; her odd decided manners had always amused him; but now that he imagined himself so much the object of her preference as to cause her to refuse the addresses of Zedwitz, his admiration began to verge towards love; and the manners which had before caused him amusement became the subject of deep interest, as affording a key to the mind which, with secret satisfaction, he felt he had always considered of no common stamp. Pleased with himself, and unconsciously prepared to be more than pleased with the subject of his thoughts, he bounded up stairs, rang the bell, and was admitted by Hildegarde herself.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, with some embarrassment, “I wish to speak to you alone for a few minutes, if you are at leisure.”

“I am quite at leisure,” replied Hamilton, following her towards the drawing-room. She walked directly to the window, and desired him so haughtily to “shut the door,” that he felt half inclined to be angry. After waiting some time in vain expectation that she would begin the conversation, he observed, with some pique at her apparent imperturbability—

“To what extraordinary event, or to what singular good fortune, am I indebted for this interview, mademoiselle?”

No sooner had he spoken than he perceived that her composure had been forced, that she was in fact struggling with contending emotions, and quite unable to utter a word. After some delay, she at last began in a constrained voice—

“Believe me, Mr. Hamilton, that nothing but my affection for my sister could have induced me to trespass on your time, or,” she added more naturally, “subject myself to your sneers.”

Hamilton remained silent, and she again commenced with evident effort. “You are aware that my sister’s feelings towards you are more favourable than——”

“Than yours?” he asked, interrupting her.

“I have not requested this interview to speak of my own feelings,” she answered, sternly and turning pale. “I wish to point out to you how ungenerous, how cruel your conduct has been to my gentle, confiding sister. You know the influence you have acquired over her—you are aware that she is on the eve of marriage with another, and that other person she has yet to learn to love; instead of pointing out to her any estimable qualities he may possess in order to reconcile her to her fate, you turn him on all occasions into ridicule, and—and—not content with changing her indifference for her future husband into positive dislike, you take every opportunity of paying her attentions, which, knowing the state of her feelings towards you, is a refinement of cruelty that you must acknowledge to be unpardonable.”

“You speak like a book, mademoiselle! Your affection for your sister makes you absolutely eloquent! but would it not have been better had you consented to marry Major Stultz, and so saved your gentle, confiding sister from this unwished-for connection? You would, no doubt, easily have learned to love him and esteem any amiable qualities he may possess!” He spoke calmly and ironically; but the idea of the beautiful creature before him, as the wife of Major Stultz, inflicted a pang of jealousy which sufficiently punished him for his impertinence. Hildegarde was perfectly unconscious of the feelings of her tormentor; he had intended to have irritated her, for her self-possession wounded his vanity, while her too evident dislike cut him to the quick. He failed, however, for the first time, and most completely; either her affection for her sister, or the consciousness of right, prevented her from exhibiting even impatience when she again spoke.

“You seem to have forgotten that Major Stultz’s proposal to me was made after a two-days’ acquaintance. I refused him because I did not like him, and I knew it could give no pain to a man whose mere object was to have a wife to manage his household concerns. It never occurred to me that he would turn, half an hour afterward, to my sister, and that my vehemence would only serve to make him more cautious, and her fate more certain. You know he applied to my step-mother, and wrote to my father. The answer was a letter, full of reproaches to me, and of entreaties and commendations to Crescenz, which, to her yielding nature, were irresistible; and I do believe, if given time, and were you not here, she might be reconciled to her lot. However little Major Stultz may have cared for Crescenz at first, it is impossible for him to remain long indifferent to so much goodness. I think he already begins to be sincerely attached to her; in time, gratitude and habit will enable her to return his affection, and they may, eventually, be very happy. At all events, my sister’s fate is now irrevocable.”

She paused for a moment, and then added: “Oh, Mr. Hamilton, be generous! Spare her! Leave Munich—or, at least, leave our house——”

“You require a great and most unnecessary sacrifice on my part, mademoiselle. Suppose I were able to convince you that my absence is unnecessary?”

“You cannot do so,” replied Hildegarde, with a slightly impatient gesture.

“I have listened to you with patience and expect in my turn to be heard,” said Hamilton, handing her a chair, which, however, she indignantly refused.

“Your sister has most probably told you——” he began.

“My sister has told me nothing,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him angrily, “excepting that you said you could not marry, or even think of marriage! The conversation which preceded such a declaration I can imagine!”

“Indeed! It seems you have had experience in these matters.”

Hildegarde bit her lip and tapped with her foot on the floor, while Hamilton smiled provokingly, and watched her varying colour.

“Ungenerous, unfeeling Englishman!” she cried at length; “I—I see you are trying to put me into a passion—but I am not angry, not in the least, I assure you,” she said, seating herself on the chair he had before placed for her. “You said,” she added in a constrained voice, “you said you were able to convince me——”

“You have convinced me that you are a consummate actress!” cried Hamilton, contemptuously.

“I am no actress!” she exclaimed, starting from her chair with such violence that it fell to the ground with a loud crash. “I am no actress! For Crescenz’s sake, I have endeavoured to be calm, in the hope of making some impression on you, but you are even more thoroughly selfish than I imagined. This is the last time I shall ever speak to you!”

“Don’t make rash vows,” said Hamilton, coolly. “I dare say you will often speak to me in time—perhaps condescend to like me!”

“Never! I do not think there exists a more unamiable being in the world than you are! I now see you are determined not to leave our house, and only wonder I could have been such a fool as to expect you to act honourably.”

Hamilton turned to the window to hide his rising colour.

“You are vindictive, too,” she continued, “cruelly vindictive. It is because you dislike me; it is in order to make me unhappy that you trifle with my sister’s feelings. You do not, you cannot love her. She is not at all a person likely to interest a man such as you are!”

“When did you discover that?” asked Hamilton, turning suddenly round.

“No matter,” she replied, moving towards the door, somewhat surprised at the effect her words had produced on him. “No matter; I now see that these conferences and quarrels are worse than useless, and——”

“I agree with you,” said Hamilton, quickly, “and am most willing to sign a treaty of peace, on reasonable terms. Suppose I promise never by word or deed to disparage Major Stultz in future, and totally to abstain from all further attentions to you sister?”

“That—is—better—than—nothing,” said Hildegarde, slowly, “and as I am acting for the benefit of another, I ought not to refuse a compromise. If you promise,” she added, hesitatingly, “I—I think I may trust you.”

“And are you satisfied without my leaving the house?”

“I suppose I must be,” she replied, stooping to raise the chair she had thrown down; Hamilton moved it from her, and leaning on the back of it, asked if he might not now hope, in case he conscientiously performed his promises, that she would in future be at least commonly civil to him.

“You have advised me to make no rash vows,” said Hildegarde. “The wisest thing we could both do would be never to look at or speak to each other again.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Hamilton, gravely, “but such wisdom is too great for me——”

She left the room while he was speaking, without even looking at him.

“Zedwitz and his sister were totally mistaken,” thought Hamilton, “but I am determined, since they have put it into my head, to make her like me!”