After the interment of Mr. Rosenberg, some time passed over in melancholy monotony. Madame Rosenberg employed herself principally in the inspection and arrangement of papers; Hildegarde wandered about the house, endeavouring in an absent manner to make herself useful. She even tried to assist the new cook, but her efforts were so entirely unsuccessful, that her mother begged she would desist, as she had no sort of talent in that line.

Mr. Rosenberg had been a kind husband and an affectionate father; Hamilton had invariably found him an agreeable companion, but his constant occupation in his office, and an inveterate habit of going out every evening, had made his society an occurrence of such rarity, that Hamilton in a short time became quite resigned to his loss; in fact, but for the mourning dresses, Hildegarde’s unconquerable dejection, and the never-failing tears of Madame Rosenberg, as she circumstantially related to every visitor the history of her husband’s illness and death, he would soon have forgotten that he had ever existed. He attended the college lectures, studied German with his friend Biedermann, rode, walked, in short, continued all his former occupations, with the exception of his quarrels with Hildegarde—these had now entirely ceased; he obeyed her slightest directions, anticipated her wishes with a sort of quiet devotion so completely directed to her alone, but so unobtrusive, that Madame Rosenberg failed to observe more than that they had learned to live peaceably in the same house together, and praised them both more than once for having ceased their silly and useless quarrels.

One day, about the beginning of April, Hildegarde recalled him just as he was about to leave the house, saying that her mother wished to speak to him; he laughingly demanded if the probably not very important communication could not be deferred to another day, as he had promised to meet some friends at Tambosi’s in the Hofgarten. Hildegarde gravely shook her head, and said she believed her mother was waiting for him.

“What a bore!” he exclaimed, striding along the passage; “I suppose I shall be detained half an hour to hear a lecture about having forgotten to extinguish the candles last night, or having burned my boots on the stove! I really wish, Hildegarde, you would give your new cook instructions about my room—it is not at all necessary that your mother should be informed every time an accident occurs there.”

Madame Rosenberg was sitting at an old-fashioned scrutoire furnished with innumerable diminutive secret and apparent drawers; she had a small packet of bills beside her, and various heaps of money before her. When Hamilton entered, she immediately moved back her chair, and pointed to another beside her, which she wished him to occupy. Now that Hamilton had already become a little spoiled by Madame Rosenberg’s indulgence, praises, and deference to his opinion, he had learned to like her and even overlook her vulgarity; but in proportion as his affection had increased his respect had decreased, and like the spoiled son of a weak mother, he now stood leaning against the door, refusing with an impatient gesture the offered chair, and murmuring some unintelligible words about business and disappointments.

“I shall not detain you long,” said Madame Rosenberg, drawing out of her pocket an enormous linen handkerchief, and wiping away two large tears, which were obtrusively rolling down her cheeks. “I ought to have spoken to you long ago, but I have been thinking over and over the means of rendering my communication less disagreeable.”

“So,” cried Hamilton, closing the door, and advancing towards her, “so it is not about the boots you are going to lecture me?”

“No,” she replied, half laughing, “though I must say——”

“I know all you are going to say,” cried Hamilton, laughing, “extravagant habits, horrible smell, danger of burning the house, and all that! Suppose it said—I am very contrite indeed, and promise not to burn either shirt or boots for three weeks to come, and not at all when the weather is warmer and the stove is not heated.”

“In three weeks, and when the weather is warmer, we shall be too far apart for me either to lecture or detain you in my room against your will!”

“My dear Madame Rosenberg,” exclaimed Hamilton, springing towards her, and not only seating himself on the previously disdained chair, but drawing it so close to hers that she involuntarily drew back; “my dear Madame Rosenberg, you surely do not mean that I must leave you?”

“I do, indeed,” she answered, nodding her head slowly and despondingly, and again the monstrous handkerchief was put in requisition. “I’m sure,” she added, somewhat surprised at the varying emotions depicted on his countenance, “I’m sure it’s very kind of you to be so sorry to leave us—I thought the loss was wholly on our side.”

“I have spent seven of the happiest months of my life in your house,” began Hamilton.

“Six months and one week,” said Madame Rosenberg, interrupting him; “you were three weeks at Havard’s, you know, and when we are settling our account the three weeks must be deducted, for, as poor dear Franz said——”

“I should like to know your intentions with respect to Hildegarde,” said Hamilton, who had not heard one word of the explanation.

“Hildegarde goes with me to the Iron Works, as people now call them; poor Franz was so uneasy about her on his death-bed, that I promised him she should never leave my house excepting with her own free will, and always have the power of returning to it when she chose, and that she should receive on her marriage a trousseau in every respect like her sister’s.”

“This promise must have been a great relief to his mind,” observed Hamilton.

“It was,” said Madame Rosenberg, and the tears flowed fast as she added: “I would have given him everything I had in the world to have made him contented in his last moments. We lived so happily together during the twelve years which we passed in this house. I cannot remain here any longer—the house—the furniture—Munich itself has become odious to me. I intend to return to my father. Fritz will be made a gentleman, as his father wished it, at the military school. Gustle must be his grandfather’s successor at the Iron Works; he has, at all events, no great love of learning; and Peppy is too young to be taken into consideration at present.”

“Take me with you to the Iron Works,” said Hamilton, abruptly.

Madame Rosenberg looked at him as if she did not quite comprehend.

“Take me with you to the Iron Works,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “It is no place for you,” she said, steadily, “nor is my father, though an excellent man, a companion for you. Your parents would be dissatisfied, and with reason, were you to bury yourself in an insignificant village, just so many miles from Munich as to prevent your being able to avail yourself of the advantages which you told me you had found here for the completion of your education.”

Hamilton felt the justness of her remark, and did not attempt to contradict it; he had, however, no intention of quitting a family of which Hildegarde was still to be a member; nor did he much concern himself about the satisfaction or dissatisfaction of his parents just at that moment. He understood Madame Rosenberg perfectly, and changed his tactics. Throwing himself back in his chair, he said, with apparent resignation: “Well, I suppose I must spend the ensuing five months at Havard’s, that’s all!”

“At Havard’s! What an idea!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg; “to be giving suppers and drinking champagne every night! I never heard of anything so absurd!”

“Why, where else can I go? I cannot well take a lodging and engage a cook and housemaid for myself, can I?”

“No,” replied Madame Rosenberg, half laughing, “not exactly that—but a lodging, or a family might be found. Suppose, for instance, that Madame Berger should have proposed taking you, in case the Doctor have no objection, eh?”

“I am sure I have none,” said Hamilton, vainly endeavouring to suppress a smile as he added, “she is one of the prettiest little women I ever saw, and with time and opportunity I have no doubt I shall fall desperately in love with her. You will not be there to sustain me with your good advice—and—a—but at least you will be answerable for the consequences, as you will have led me into the temptation!”

“Good heavens! Not for all the world would I take such a responsibility upon myself!” cried Madame Rosenberg, with a look of amazement; “Lina, too, so giddy and thoughtless, and the Doctor never at home! It would never do, I see. But who would have imagined that you would think of such a thing at your age!”

“I am just at the age to act more from impulse than reason, and I consider you too much my friend not to speak candidly to you. If Major Stultz were not so insufferably jealous, you could make me over to Crescenz—my regard for her is really of the most blameless description, and will never be otherwise.”

“Oh, the Major would never listen to such a proposal.”

“Then I have no alternative but Havard’s—Havard’s or your house,” he continued, taking her large hard hand and pressing it fervently; “dear Madame Rosenberg, let me go with you; I have a sort of presentiment that it is the only means of keeping me out of mischief; besides, I can ride or drive into Munich two or three times a week.”

“But I have no room for you,” she cried, with a look of distress; for the earnestness of his manner had begun to move her.

“You must make room for me,” urged Hamilton.

“And as to your horses and Hans——”

“Oh, I can easily find quarters for them in the neighbourhood.”

“You will have to sleep in a room without a stove——”

“I don’t want a stove in summer.”

“Well, then,” she said hesitatingly, “if you think that you can be satisfied with the accommodation which I have at my disposal, you can accompany us to the country. Should our manner of living, or what I fear more, my father, not suit you, you can leave us, you know; we will part friends at all events.”

“Don’t talk or think of parting,” cried Hamilton, gayly. “I am sure I shall find your father a most worthy person—we shall get on famously together. When do you leave? It will be quite delightful to breathe the country air. I assure you I feel already impatient to be off.”

“On the 24th I purpose leaving Munich,” said Madame Rosenberg, once more drawing her chair towards her scrutoire, and beginning to count her little heaps of money.

“Are those Iron Works romantically situated?” asked Hamilton.

“N—o. They are on the high road at the end of the village; but there is a fine old oak wood quite close to us.”

“Ah! an oak wood,” repeated Hamilton, thoughtfully.

“We have also a garden and orchard behind the house; the smoke from the forge indeed spoils the flowers greatly, but there is an arbour under the trees where we can breakfast, and drink coffee after dinner, in summer—the arbour is quite covered with roses and honeysuckles.”

“Ah, that is delightful!” cried Hamilton, in vision imagining himself sitting with Hildegarde in the rose and honeysuckle arbour.

“But you are forgetting your appointment,” observed Madame Rosenberg, who had been in vain endeavouring to correct a fault in her reckoning.

“A civil way of telling me to leave you in peace,” said Hamilton, laughing.

“Not at all, I assure you. If you have really no appointment, I shall be glad to talk over my plans with you.”

“I had an appointment,” he said, looking at his watch, “for which I am too late. I have another, for which I am a few minutes too early.”

“A few minutes,” repeated Madame Rosenberg. “That will never do for me. In your ‘few minutes’ I can only inform you that you must go for a few days at least to Havard’s, until I have got everything in order. Hildegarde and the children I intend to pack off the day after to-morrow.”

“Oh, pack me off, too, with Hil——with the children,” cried Hamilton, eagerly. “I wish you would consider me really as one of them.”

“Well, I am sure I have always done so since you have been with me. Poor Franz often said I took great liberties with you.”

“I cannot remember anything of the kind.”

“Why, have you forgotten the Sunday Fritz broke the window in the drawing-room, when you were teaching him to box?”

“I remember you boxed his ears, poor fellow, which he certainly did not deserve, as he was not really the cause of the mischief. It was I who pushed him against the window, and, if I recollect right, both Mr. Rosenberg and I protested——”

“Yes, you protested, and that made me still more angry; but if you don’t remember what I said to you, so much the better. Franz said he believed you never heard it, as you were laughing with Madame Berger, and I was afterwards very sorry for having said so much, especially about the rough English plays.”

Hamilton smiled. “I suppose,” he said, turning towards the door, “Hans may pack up my chattels; you will send me to the country with the children.”

“No, no, no,” cried Madame Rosenberg, hastily, “that will never do; I must write to my father and explain. If he knew the sort of person you are—he would never consent to your becoming an inmate of his house!”

“Am I, then, so very disagreeable?” asked Hamilton.

“Quite the contrary—but you do not understand my father. In short, it is better to tell you at once—why should I be ashamed to say it? He was a common journeyman smith—so extremely industrious, of such enormous strength, and with so much talent for mechanics, that he made himself not only useful, but altogether indispensable to my grandfather, who, rather than lose him, gave him his daughter in marriage. Our forge became in time an iron work, and he is now the richest man far and wide. To see him, you would not suppose so; he is neither changed in manner nor dress——” Madame Rosenberg paused.

“Well?” said Hamilton.

“Well!” she repeated, a little impatiently. “It is plain enough, I think, that such a man will not suit you—or you suit him.”

“I don’t know that,” said Hamilton. “A man who has turned a forge into an iron work, and who from having nothing has become rich by honest means, must be possessed of good sense and good talents, too. As to his appearance or dress—a man’s coat——”

“That’s just what I am afraid of,” cried Madame Rosenberg.

“Do you think I attach much importance to a coat? I assure you that I am determined to like your father with and without a coat.”

“I will write him that, and it will at once put an end to our difficulties, for if I say that he will never imagine you are so fastidious——”

“I don’t quite understand——” said Hamilton with a puzzled air.

“It would never do—you see—were we to inconvenience him,” said Madame Rosenberg, “or force him to change his mode of life. He likes to work and dine in his shirt-sleeves, and is not over particular how his meals are served—this I can change, perhaps, but against the shirt-sleeves I can do nothing, and I know it is very vulgar; Franz told me so often enough.”

“I have no sort of objection to his shirt-sleeves,” said Hamilton, “provided he allow me to wear a coat. What matter! If this be the reason why I should not go with Hildegarde and the children the day after to-morrow, I think you may waive all ceremony and tell your father that I belong to the family. You have made an agreement to keep me for six months longer.”

“This is a good idea,” said Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “I will write to him to-morrow, and I dare say I shall have an answer in a day or two.”

Hamilton perceived he had gained every concession he could reasonably demand, and left the room quietly and thoughtfully.

Hildegarde had prepared her brothers for their afternoon walk, and was waiting with some indications of impatience for his appearance. He had been forbidden to walk with her, but had established a sort of right to be informed where she intended to go—that he should ride near her, or at least become visible during her walk, was a sort of tacit agreement.

“The Nymphenburg road,” cried Gustle, springing towards him. “May I have one of your canes?”

“And may I, too, have one to ride upon?” asked Peppy.

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “Hildegarde will show you those you may take.”

“Oh, come, Hildegarde,” cried Gustle, pulling her rather roughly; “come and choose the canes for us. I must have the little black one with the horse’s head on it.”

But Hildegarde showed no inclination to move.

“You were a long time in my mother’s room,” she said at length, with some embarrassment.

“Not longer than was necessary to make her consent to take me with her to the country. Oh, Hildegarde, what pleasant walks we shall have in the oak wood, and how much happier we shall be there than here. Were you ever at these Iron Works?”

“Not since I was a child,” answered Hildegarde, smiling as she had not smiled since her father’s death; “I remember the noise of the hammers was incessant, and the house shook a good deal, and the white window-curtains were very soon soiled.”

“We shall get used to the hammers, I dare say,” said Hamilton, laughing. “As to the house shaking, that must be imagination; and the window-curtains can be easily changed, you know.”

“But mamma said nothing in the world would induce her to take you with us. How did you persuade her?”

“I can tell you all that when I return home. Excuse me as well as you can, should I be late for supper. Good-by.”

“Where are you going?” asked Hildegarde.

He whispered a few words, and then hurried downstairs.