There had been a thunder-storm during the night, and the rain descended the next morning in torrents. “I fear, Hamilton, our party must be put off for a short time!” observed Baron Z—, as he walked from one window to the other, in a disconsolate manner, after breakfast. “How I detest a hopeless day of this kind!”

“I remember,” said A. Z., “that when I was an accomplished young lady, I rather liked a day of rain when I had a drawing to finish, or a new song to study—I do not dislike it to-day either, but for a very different reason. Had it been fine, I must have gone to the alp, to do the honours of my dairy to Mr. Hamilton, and now, without any incivility on my part, I can stay at home and quietly inspect the making of a hundred-weight of soap, which cannot be any longer delayed, and I expect,” she added, turning to Hamilton, “or rather I hope, on your way from the brewery, where of course you will go to smoke with Herrmann, you will visit me—in the wash-house.”

“And can you really make soap?” asked Hamilton, rather surprised.

“I really can, and really do, as you shall see—but, perhaps, you don’t care about soap-boiling?”

“I—rather hoped—that, perhaps, to-day you would have had time to talk to me about——”

“Oh! I always find time to talk,” said A. Z., “my soap will be ready before dinner; it was begun yesterday evening, and has been boiling all the morning, so you see after our coffee we shall have the whole afternoon, and no chance of visitors!”

Just as all the bells in the neighbourhood were chiming noon, Hamilton walked into the wash-house, and there found A. Z. standing beside an immense boiler, filled with a substance very much resembling porridge; she was examining some of it, as it trickled down a piece of flat wood, which she held in her hand, and having dipped her finger into it, and found that it formed what she called a thimble, she appeared satisfied. Some few directions she gave to a little old woman, who seemed very learned on the subject of soap-boiling, and then she wound her way through the surrounding tubs and buckets and pails to Hamilton, and with him went unceremoniously to dinner.

When Hamilton, a couple of hours afterwards, joined A. Z. in the drawing-room, he found her turning over the last leaves of his journal, as she sat in a large arm-chair, beside the slightly heated stove. She turned round immediately and observed: “Well, Mr. Hamilton, you ‘rather hoped I should find time to talk.’ I have time now, and only wait to hear what is to be the subject of conversation.”

He drew a chair close to her, and said, “First of all—your opinion of Hildegarde. Does she care for me?”

“I am afraid she does,” answered A. Z.

“How can you say, ‘afraid,’ when you know it is what I most wish—my only chance of happiness! I fear nothing but a refusal now. Have you not observed that she has never said a word which could make me for a moment imagine she cared in the least for me?”

“Judge her actions, and not her words,” answered A. Z.

“And if her actions should denote more friendship than love?”

“The friendship of a girl of eighteen for a man of one-or two-and-twenty is very apt to degenerate into love.”

“And you call that degenerating?”

A. Z. nodded her head, and said, “We have no time to discuss that matter now, nor is it necessary; but there is something I should like to say to you, if you will allow me.”

“I allow you—wish you to say anything, everything you please.”

“Before I read your journal,” she continued, turning quite round to him, “I was disposed only to think of you, and your interests, and recommended you to return home, without again seeing Mademoiselle Rosenberg, or entering into any engagement with her. I give you the same advice now—but—for her sake—on her account!”

“And this you say, supposing her attached to me, and knowing that I am willing to sacrifice everything I most value for her!” said Hamilton.

“Yes, I consider the whole affair as the purest specimen of first love that it is possible to imagine; so sincere on both sides, that, were there no impediments to your marriage, I think you might pass your lives very happily together; but the sacrifices you are about to make she will not, I fear, be able properly to estimate, and you must be very different from most young men of your age and position in the world, if you have steadiness enough, after two whole years’ absence, to return here, change all your habits, and bury yourself in these mountains for the rest of your life!”

“I think—I am almost sure, that for Hildegarde I can do so.”

“If you do, I shall have a colossal respect for your character; but in the meantime forgive my doubting it. Your uncle will send you to Paris, give you unlimited command of money, the temptations are great there, and with your brother John, and your cousin Harry as companions, I fear that at the end of the first year you will write Mademoiselle Rosenberg a letter to say, ‘that finding it impossible to obtain the consent of your family to your union, you will not drag the woman you love into poverty!’ I believe this is the usual phrase used on such occasions? And you can do this, without even incurring the censure of the world, for who knows anything of Hildegarde? No one will ever hear that, for your sake, she has refused Max Zedwitz, and that she will again do so, if engaged to you, is a matter of course; and no one will know that your desertion will condemn her either to being a governess or to a nunnery for the rest of her life, for she will never marry a Major Stultz, or a FÖrster Weidmann!” A. Z. paused, but as Hamilton did not speak, she continued, “I see my doubts rather offend you, but such conduct is, I am sorry to say, common, and I know you too little to estimate your character as it, perhaps, deserves. And now let us consider the other side of the question—I mean Hildegarde’s—she has never, you say, betrayed herself to you, still less, I am sure to anyone else. To most women, the feeling of wounded pride, the sense of shame at being publicly slighted and forsaken, is quite as painful to bear as the real loss of the love on which all their visions of future happiness are built—all this may still be spared Hildegarde. You have left her without explanation, she thinks highly of you, for she does not know that you could have acted otherwise than as you have done—none of her family have the least idea that she cares for you, she even flatters herself that you are not aware of it—she will long remember you after you have ceased to think of her, but the remembrance will be unmixed with pain. When Maximilian again meets her, she will tell him that she never can return his affection, that she never can feel anything but friendship for him—but she will marry him, make an excellent wife, too—and may, some fine day, in this room, beside this very stove, quietly talk of you, and wonder that she could ever have preferred anyone to her excellent husband, whom we may suppose sitting just where you are now!”

“Really a most agreeable picture!” cried Hamilton, with ill-concealed irritation of manner. “And pray what is to become of me?”

“I have already said you will forget more quickly than she can; and so, after enjoying the world and its pomps and vanities for a few years, you will marry a Lady Jane or Lady Mary Somebody, who will be quite as amiable—if not as beautiful as Hildegarde?”

“You are considering this affair much too lightly,” cried Hamilton, starting from his chair almost angrily. “You talk as if it was a mere flirtation!”

“No: I have ceased to consider it as such,” rejoined A. Z. gravely. “I wish to save you from self-reproach, and Hildegarde from real unhappiness hereafter. The bitterness of parting is now over on both sides. With the best intentions in the world, circumstances might induce you to write the letter I spoke of—Hildegarde’s feelings now are very different from what they will be when she has accustomed herself to think of you as her companion for life. I would willingly save her youth from a blight which, however her pride and strength of mind may enable her to conceal it, will prevent the development of all her good qualities, and perhaps turn her generous confidence into suspicious distrust, her warmth of heart into callousness forever—but I have now said enough—too much, perhaps;” and she walked to the window which she opened, to ask Baron Z—, who was in the court-yard, what he thought of the weather.

“No chance of a change,” he answered; “the barometer is still falling, and it will not clear up until there is snow on the mountain tops, most probably.”

“That is the only disagreeable thing in a mountainous country,” observed A. Z., turning to Hamilton. “When it begins to rain, it never knows how or when to stop. I am sorry, on your account, that the fine weather has not lasted a little longer; but to-morrow we shall have a box of new books, and perhaps you may find something to interest you among them.”

“I am sure,” said Hamilton, “that you will agree with me in thinking that I ought not delay my return to Munich even a day longer, now that I have quite decided on my future plans. I wish, if possible, to prevent Hildegarde from going to Frankfort, where that Mademoiselle Hortense intended to send her.”

“I scarcely know what I ought to say,” replied A. Z. “It is not to be expected that you will remain here listening to my long stories and the rain pattering against the windows, when you have a good excuse for leaving.”

“A reason—not an excuse,” said Hamilton.

“Well then,” said A. Z., as she closed the window, “though I do not ask you to give me a lock of your hair, I feel so much interested in your affairs, that I hope you will ‘Trust me, and let me know your love’s success,’ in a few lines which you may find time to write to me after you have reached home.”