Hamilton prided himself upon being an excellent skater; it was, therefore, with no little satisfaction that he perceived, the next day, that he had been followed to the lake by the Rosenberg and Hoffmann families—no sooner, however, had Zedwitz seen the former, than his skates were thrown aside—a place beside Hildegarde secured, and he accompanied them home. This occurred several days successively, and Zedwitz at length, on finding that he had regained his former intimacy, ventured to give the proposed warning. Hamilton was at the moment sweeping before them, “on sounding skates a thousand different ways,” and exhibiting more than usual grace and animation. Zedwitz began judiciously by praising his rival—commended his person, his varied information and talents, the more extraordinary from his extreme youth, and then regretted that he had lost almost all the freshness belonging to his time of life, that his ideas were altogether those of a man of the world, that the society of an elder brother, an accomplished vaurien, had evidently been of great disadvantage to him, and had given him opinions, especially with respect to women, which were dangerous in the extreme. Hildegarde had listened with a composure so nearly verging on indifference, that Zedwitz, almost reassured, regretted having said so much, and had she continued silent, would have, perhaps, softened his last remark, but she looked up suddenly, and said with her usual energy, “Mr. Hamilton has never spoken of his brother to me, therefore I know nothing about him. You are, however, mistaken as to his opinion of women—he thinks much more highly of them than men generally do, and that he likes their society is evident by his remaining so much at home with us. Mamma says she never knew any young man so perfectly well educated, and so excellent in every respect.”

Zedwitz was not aware of the peculiarity in Hildegarde’s disposition which led her invariably to defend the absent; he was, therefore, greatly vexed, and with difficulty stammered, “And you—you—perhaps—think equally highly of him?”

“Perhaps I do—the more I know him, the better I like him,” replied Hildegarde, bluntly.

“I am answered,” murmured Zedwitz, biting his lip, “my warning comes too late—he knew it when he gave me leave to speak.”

“Who gave you leave? What warning?” asked Hildegarde, quickly.

Zedwitz had gone too far to recede, and he now became perfectly explicit. Hildegarde again listened calmly, and when he ceased, observed half reproachfully, “When Mr. Hamilton speaks of you, it is not to warn me—but let us pass over that. I must, however, tell you that you have not in your warning said anything which I have not already heard from himself.”

“That’s it!” cried Zedwitz, with ill-concealed impatience, “he acted honourably in putting you on your guard, but he now considers himself at liberty to win your affections if he can!”

Hildegarde seemed struck by this remark, and walked on in silence. Zedwitz excused himself for having spoken against his friend on the plea of jealousy, and then urged his own cause with great fervour. While thus speaking, they had taken a wrong turn, and were loudly recalled by Madame Rosenberg, “who wondered what on earth they could have been thinking about!” Zedwitz had no opportunity of renewing the conversation, but he was apparently satisfied on finding that she was not displeased.

When Hamilton returned home that evening, Hildegarde was at the Hoffmanns’: she had not visited them for a long time, and on her return, he inquired with extreme affability after each member of the family, cousin Oscar included. She seated herself as far distant from him as possible, and while answering his questions seemed to think more of a coloured wool, which she was arranging in a basket, than of what she was saying.

“Did your cousin read for you this evening?” asked Hamilton, moving his chair towards her.

“No, he tried a quantity of new music which Marie had just received. Crescenz, do tell me how you distinguish your greens at night? They all appear blue to me!”

“The names and numbers are pinned on each colour,” replied Crescenz, pushing forward her neatly arranged basket for inspection.

Major Stultz said something about young women of orderly habits making good wives, which she did not seem to hear, but when Hamilton in returning the basket observed, that the colours were so judiciously arranged, that they reminded him of a rainbow, a smile of childish delight brightened her youthful features and made her look so pretty, that he playfully held back the basket, and began a series of questions on the different colours, exhibiting an excess of ignorance on the subject which seemed to amuse her infinitely more than Major Stultz, who first drummed on the table, then pushed back his chair, and finally told her somewhat testily, that “she was preventing Mr. Hamilton from reading his newspaper.”

Hamilton understood the hint, and resigned the basket with a slight laugh; Crescenz blushed, and, with evident displeasure, followed Major Stultz to another table, where he proposed reading her the letters which he had that day received from Nuremberg.

Hamilton drew his chair close to Hildegarde’s, while he observed, “I am very glad that you have no one who has a right to forbid your speaking to me.”

Hildegarde bent over her work for a minute, and then looking up asked abruptly, “What sort of a person is your eldest brother?”

“The best-natured fellow in the world, good-looking, and amusing. You would be sure to like him, if you could pardon his speaking the most execrable French imaginable.”

“Is he amiable?”

“Amiable? oh, very amiable!”

“And not a vaurien?”

“Tant soit peu,” said Hamilton, laughing, “but not half so bad as your cousin Raimund.”

“Is he much older than you?”

“Several years; but may I ask why my brother has so suddenly become an object of interest to you?”

“He does not interest me in the least,” began Hildegarde, but at that moment, Hamilton, whose hand had been wandering through the entangled skeins of wool in her basket, suddenly drew forth a small book which had been concealed beneath them; her first impulse was to prevent his opening it, but she changed her mind, and though blushing deeply, continued to work without uttering a syllable.

Hamilton turned over the leaves for some minutes in silence. “Who recommended you to read the works of Georges Sand?” he asked, as he placed the book beside her on the table.

“Oscar; he told me they were interesting, and extremely well written.”

“They are both the one and the other, and yet nothing would have induced me to advise you to read them, especially this volume. I am surprised you did not yourself perceive that it was not suited for a person of your age or——”

“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently. “Mamma wishes me to read French that I may not forget the language; the best writers of the day are, of course, the best for that purpose, and Oscar says all French novels are more or less of this description. He told me that I need not have any scruples, for that these works were written by a woman, and might therefore be read by one.”

“So, then, you had scruples?”

“I have none at present,” said Hildegarde, taking up the volume, “besides,” she added, drawing her chair close to the table, “I positively must know whether or not the heroine marries the young poet.”

“Marry!” cried Hamilton, laughing, ironically, “there is not one word of marriage in the whole book—that would be much too unpoetical. I can hardly, however, imagine that this heroine really interests you—a heroine whose thoughts and reasonings are those of a woman who has plunged into the whirlpool of earthly pleasures, and from satiety learned to despise them. I wish it were any of the other works of Sand, or—or that, for your sake, Madame Dudevant had been less gloriously graphical in some parts of her work. If,” he added, half inquiringly, “if you merely read to know the end of the story, it is easily told; the events are few, and I am ready to relate them to you.”

“Oscar has a much higher opinion of my intellect than you have,” observed Hildegarde, slowly turning over the leaves; “he says my character is so decidedly formed, that I may read, without danger, whatever I please.”

“That was gross flattery,” said Hamilton, “for no girl of seventeen can read a work of this description without danger. The religious speculations alone make it unfit for you—but stay, I can prove it; read half a dozen pages aloud for me—where you please; the chances are in my favour that I prove myself right.”

“It is not exactly adapted for reading aloud,” said Hildegarde with some embarrassment.

“That is an infallible criterion by which you may know what to read for the next ten years,” said Hamilton.

“But I dare say I could find many parts which I should have no objection to read aloud.”

“Read then,” said Hamilton, with a provoking smile.

Hildegarde began. “The style at least is faultless,” she observed, at the end of a few minutes.

“Perfect,” said Hamilton; “but go on.”

She continued. By degrees her voice became less firm; a deep blush overspread her face; she turned away her head from him, and his eyes rested on her small and now perfectly crimson ear, and yet she persevered until the words almost seemed to suffocate her, when, throwing down the book, she exclaimed, “You were right. I will not read any more of it, nor any of the others recommended by Oscar.”

“May I write you a list?” asked Hamilton, eagerly.

“Pray do,” cried Hildegarde, turning round. “I promise to read them all.”

A leaf was hastily torn out of his pocket-book, a pencil carefully pointed, and two hours scarcely sufficed to bring this most simple business to a satisfactory conclusion, so various were the observations and discussions to which it gave rise.