“Stop, stop, if you please,” cried Zedwitz’s servant to Hamilton, who was beginning to run down the street, “Count Max is not in his own house—he is here just opposite—at the brazier’s.”

“At the brazier’s!” exclaimed Hamilton, “what induced him to go there?”

“Don’t know, sir,” replied the man, “he has been lodging there the last week or two.”

“Lodging there?” repeated Hamilton, as he crossed the street, “that is an odd idea.”

The man opened the house-door with a latch-key, took up a candle which was burning on the staircase, and walked up to the very top of the house. They passed through two or three empty garrets before they reached the one which Zedwitz had chosen for his sleeping apartment. The furniture contrasted strangely with the whitewashed walls, sloping ceilings, and windows protruding from the roof. A handsome bedstead, wardrobe, sofa, several large arm-chairs, and tables covered with writing and drawing materials, found with difficulty, place in the ill-shaped room. A stranger was sitting by the bed; he rose as Hamilton approached.

“So they have brought you here, after all,” said Zedwitz; “I hope at least that you have been told the true state of the case—that you know that I have the worst description of cholera?”

“You know I do not consider it infectious,” replied Hamilton, “and if I can be of any use, I am prepared to remain with you.”

Zedwitz pressed his friend’s hand.

“If I am not better in a few hours,” he said slowly, “that is, when there is no hope of my recovery, you may write to Edelhof—I do not wish to see any of my family—not even Agnes—coming from the country, they would be too liable to infection.”

“But,” said Hamilton, “I do not see Doctor Berger—why have you not sent for him?”

“Because I am here, and not in my own house, and he tells everything to his chattering wife, who relates, with interest, all she hears to whoever will listen to her.”

“But why are you here?” asked Hamilton.

A violent spasm put an end to the conversation, nor was it possible to renew it. Zedwitz hourly became worse, Hamilton proportionably anxious. At length he sent not only for Doctor Berger, but also for his friend Biedermann, and when they had declared Zedwitz’s case almost hopeless, he wrote as he had been desired to Edelhof, and employed his servant Hans as courier.

Late in the evening Zedwitz lay motionless from exhaustion. Biedermann had more than once held a feather under his nostrils to ascertain if he still breathed. Hamilton rose slowly from his station by the bed, and walked cautiously to one of the small windows. On reaching it, he stumbled over a large telescope which was pointed against a round hole, evidently cut in the curtain—he was about to remove the telescope to avoid a recurrence of the noise which he had just made, but, on second thoughts, he seated himself on a chair conveniently placed beside it, and applied his eye to the glass.

In a moment, he was in Madame Rosenberg’s drawing-room; the muslin curtains were not closed, and he saw the preparations for the rubber of whist—the candles and counters arranged, the entrance of the Hoffmanns, accompanied as usual by Raimund. The latter soon seated himself at the pianoforte, and from the different movements of his person and hands, Hamilton tried to imagine the music to which the others (not the card-players) listened apparently with the most profound attention. He had heard so much from Hildegarde of her cousin’s extraordinary talent for music, that he expected to see her immediately move towards him. Great was, therefore, his surprise, when she walked to the window most distant from him, and drawing still further aside the small transparent curtains, turned her face upwards exactly in the direction of the window from which he was looking out. He could not any longer see her features, but he imagined her looking at him, and he involuntarily pushed back his chair. Did she know where he was? Or had she already known that Zedwitz was in her neighbourhood? He tried to remember if she had been in the habit of going to the window—he believed not—but he recollected her immediate recognition of Zedwitz in the street the evening before. The scene on the stairs recurred to his memory with extraordinary exactness, and a sudden suspicion, like a flash of lightning, made him see Zedwitz as his midnight traducer. He strode towards him, but the angry question died on his lips, when he beheld the livid features convulsed with pain. Zedwitz was not only perfectly conscious of his dangerous state, but everything passing around him; he glanced towards the window, and asked in a low hoarse voice, “Have you seen her?”

“Yes, she is looking at the windows of this room.”

A long silence ensued, and then Hamilton was called out of the room to speak to old Hans, who had been sent by Hildegarde to make inquiries about Zedwitz.

“How does Mademoiselle Hildegarde know that we are here?” asked Hamilton.

“She inquired of my son this morning when he was packing your clothes. She hopes that you will take care of yourself, and says you must be sure to smell this little silk thing, as it will save you from infection.”

Hamilton smiled as he received from the old man a sachet containing camphor.

“Perhaps you will give me a line for mademoiselle; she is very uneasy.”

Hamilton wrote a few lines with his pencil.

“She said,” remarked old Hans, “you must hang it on your neck, and that she would pray for the wearer every morning in the Frauen church.”

“Did she say that?” cried Hamilton, hastily. “At what hour will she be there?”

“Between six and seven o’clock, I should think,” answered the man, with a look of intelligence by no means agreeable to Hamilton.

“You need not say that I asked you this question, Hans; it might prevent her from going to church, you know.”

“If you please, I can say you don’t think of going to the Frauen church to-morrow morning.”

“Say nothing at all, excepting that I am obliged to her and shall wear the amulet,” replied Hamilton, abruptly turning away.

The Countess Zedwitz, her daughter, and son-in-law, arrived before daybreak the next morning. They were at first so agitated that they could not speak a word; Zedwitz, on the contrary, was perfectly calm. “I expected you, mother,” he said, kissing her hand; “I knew you would come to me, but I wish that dear Agnes and Lengheim had remained at home. You must send them back in the course of the day.”

The Countess spoke long and earnestly with Doctor Berger, and then returned to her son’s bedside. She told him that his father continued ill and confined to his room; that he wished to see him again; was ready to forget all cause of difference between them, and she hoped, as soon as he could be removed, he would return with her to Edelhof.

Zedwitz was too weak to discuss his plans for the future, although immediately after the arrival of his relations he had had a change for the better. At five o’clock Doctor Berger gave hopes of his recovery, and an hour afterwards Hamilton was on his way to the Frauen church.

The rain had turned to sleet, and the sleet to snow since he had last been out. Large flakes now fell noiselessly around him; he saw them not—Hildegarde alone, and alternate hopes and fears that he should not, and hopes that he should, see her, occupied his thoughts.

There were not many people assembled, but the church is large, the altars numerous, and it was some time before he discovered the kneeling figure of her he sought.

Walburg, with her shining braided hair, silver head-dress, and large market-basket on her arm, was standing in the aisle; her prayers seemed ended, for she gazed cheerfully around her, and even nodded occasionally to her basketed acquaintances as they passed. She immediately recognised Hamilton, and stooped down to whisper to Hildegarde, who instantly rose, and Hamilton saw her face suffused with blushes as she walked towards him. They left the church together, and Hildegarde’s first words were, “How pale and tired you look; I hope you are not ill.”

“Not in the least,” said Hamilton; and it did not escape his observation that her principal anxiety seemed about himself. “You will be glad to hear that Zedwitz is better at last; we had no hopes of his recovery until about an hour ago.”

“So I have already heard from Mr. Biedermann, who was so kind as to call just before I left home.”

“Ah, you have seen Biedermann?”

“Yes,” and then she added after a pause, “now that Count Zedwitz’s family have arrived, you ought to think of yourself, for even if you do not fear infection, you must remember that unusual fatigue is dangerous at present. You have been two nights without rest—you who require so much more sleep than anyone else, as I heard you tell mamma more than once.”

“That was only an excuse for my unpardonable laziness,” replied Hamilton, smiling; “I intend to go to Havard’s to dress and breakfast before I return to Zedwitz. Have you any message for him. I shall deliver it faithfully.”

“None, excepting my good wishes,” said Hildegarde, turning away. “Walburg, you may now go to the grocer’s—I can walk home alone. Good-morning, Mr. Hamilton.”

Hamilton bowed gravely, waited with due propriety until Walburg was quite out of sight, and then ran after Hildegarde, and endeavoured, while still panting for breath, to thank her for the amulet, and her kind anxiety on his account.

“My father more than shares my anxiety about you,” she said, calmly; “he was greatly distressed at hearing that mamma had in a manner banished you from our house. Should you get the cholera now, and not be properly taken care of, how could we write to your family? What could we say to them?”

“You mean in case of my death? By-the-by, I never thought of that. Do not walk so fast—I want to speak to you, and I know you must dismiss me at the next turn. Should I die of cholera——”

“It is time enough to talk of death when you are ill,” said Hildegarde, hastily.

“No, it will be too late then. Twenty-four hours are more than enough to finish a man’s life now. Will you undertake to write to my sister and arrange my effects?”

“Are you joking?”

“Not in the least. You will find in a rosewood case a number of papers—a journal in fact. These papers must be carefully sealed and addressed to my sister. There is also a miniature——”

“I know,” said Hildegarde.

“How do you know,” cried Hamilton, stooping forward to catch a glimpse of her features, “how do you know anything about that?”

“Lina Berger examined your dressing-case one evening when she was in your room. Crescenz was present, and naturally told me of the miniature—I often reminded her of it.”

“Indeed! And for what purpose?”

“To prevent her forgetting that you had not even a heart to bestow on her.”

“You are right. But to return to the miniature; the original possesses, indeed, a large portion of my affection——” Hamilton stopped; he had flattered himself that his companion would, in some way, betray feelings either of jealousy or curiosity, but she walked on steadily without looking at him; and when he paused, she observed, “You must make haste; we are just at the corner; you need not tell me about the original, but say what you wish me to do with the picture.”

“Should we never meet again, unfeeling girl,” said Hamilton, half laughing, “you must send the picture to my father, for it is my sister Helen’s portrait.”

As he spoke, they had reached the place where he knew he must leave her; she stopped, and said quickly, “Mr. Hamilton, I have in this instance done you great injustice; I thought your heart was bestowed on the original of the miniature. Without this explanation I should certainly have regarded your conduct towards us as unpardonably—heartless!”

“Not quite,” said Hamilton, lightly; “I really had a heart at my disposal some time ago; younger sons are allowed to have hearts in England, and to give them away as they please; few people here think it worth while to accept so worthless a thing as a heart alone. In Germany, the same rational idea seems to prevail——”

“Not so,” cried Hildegarde, warmly; “a heart is always of value—must be of value to every one, especially to every woman.”

“You are making a collection of such valuables, I think,” said Hamilton. “Your cousin’s has been forced upon you; Zedwitz’s, to say the least, you tacitly accepted; what you intend to do with mine——”

“I must go home now,” said Hildegarde, glancing uneasily down the street; “it may be remarked if I stand here so long with you——”

“Do not be alarmed,” said Hamilton, smiling; “I have no intention of ever again favouring you with avowals of affection as absurd as useless. You are quite right not to listen to me, but you must have the kindness not to listen to my midnight representatives either. Such men must not speak for me.”

“Do not think about that any more,” said Hildegarde; “I dislike the recollection of my stupidity.”

“If I only knew who it was,” said Hamilton, contracting his brows.

“You possibly suspect Oscar, but when I referred to the subject yesterday evening, he did not in the least understand what I meant, and afterwards denied having seen me from the time I had received my Christmas presents.”

“So, then, it was Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, musingly. “I am sorry for it; our friendship is at an end.”

“Oh, no,” cried Hildegarde; “perhaps it was not Count Zedwitz; it is not like him to act so; besides, he never speaks French with me, and—and his manners are always so respectful. Oh, no, I do not think—I am quite sure it could not have been Count Zedwitz.”

“How can you, who are always so rational and candid, talk so? You know it must have been one or the other; no one else could have any motive for asking those questions; I only wish——”

“And I wish,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him, “I wish you would not either think or speak again about this disagreeable affair. Oscar has denied knowing anything about it; therefore you have no pretence to seek a quarrel with him. You have scarcely a right on suspicion to withdraw your friendship from Count Zedwitz.”

“On suspicion! No; but I shall certainly ask him if he was on the stairs of your house on Christmas Eve.”

“He will say that he was not.”

“If he do, I shall believe him.”

“And I also,” said Hildegarde, moving onwards.

“You think highly of Zedwitz?”

“Most highly. I have already told you so.”

“And of your cousin?”

Hildegarde was silent.

“And yet you continue intimate with him, and tolerate his rhapsodies!”

“He is my cousin—he loves me—and—if you must know all, I fear him now!”

“You! you fear him?”

“Yes; I fear his love and his jealousy—his frightful bursts of passion—his horrible threats. But, look, there is Walburg just now coming home; I must enter the house before her. Adieu.”

The Zedwitzes were profuse in their thanks to Hamilton, and used all their eloquence to induce him to return with them to Edelhof; no argument, however, could prevail on him to quit Munich. Before Zedwitz left, he gave Hamilton the assurance that he had not been in the Rosenbergs’ house on Christmas Eve. “If you require proof,” he added, “I can give it. You may remember I told you that I felt very ill. Could a man in the state I was then in think of such mummeries? besides, when we parted, I went home, that is, to our house in —— Street, changed my clothes, which were wet, and drank some wine. You can inquire of our old housekeeper.”

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Hamilton. “I should rather apologise for having thought you capable of such conduct, even in joke. Hildegarde did not for a moment suspect you, although she had heard her cousin’s denial.”

“Excellent girl!—she did me but justice. Much as I should like to know her feelings towards me, I never, even if I had an opportunity, would resort to such means of obtaining information.”

“And what do you think of this denial of Raimund’s?” asked Hamilton.

The carriage rolled to the door. Hamilton assisted his friend down the narrow staircase. “What do you mean to do with yourself until you are allowed to return to the Rosenbergs?” asked the latter as he pressed heavily on his arm.

“I shall buy another horse and a sledge. If the snow last, I rather expect some amusement.”

Arrived in the street, Zedwitz was obliged to lean exhausted against the house. He was with great difficulty lifted into the carriage, and as he sank back into the corner, his languid eyes turned slowly to the windows of the opposite house. Crescenz and her brothers were looking out. Hildegarde was not visible; he slightly touched his cap and turned away. His mother and sister were making a final effort to induce Hamilton to remove to Edelhof or Lengheim. Zedwitz saw the uselessness of their endeavours, and calling Hamilton to his side, whispered, “If you should be ill, remember your promise to send for me directly.” He then placed his hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on both sides of his face. Completely abashed by this proceeding, Hamilton blushed excessively, and stammered a few incoherent words as the carriage drove off.