About a fortnight after the foregoing events, as Hamilton was one morning sitting listlessly in the arbour at the end of the garden, Hildegarde came towards him carrying a large packet of letters, which Hans had just brought from Munich. As she placed herself beside him he looked at the different handwritings, and murmured, “My sister Helen—my father—John, and—from Uncle Jack, too! With what different feelings should I have received these letters a short time ago! Don’t go away, Hildegarde; I have no intention of making you any reproaches or speeches, and I may, perhaps, want your advice about fixing the day of my departure.”

She sat down on the steps leading into the arbour, leaned her elbow on her knee and her head in her hands, and remained perfectly immovable for more than half an hour. She was not musing on the past, or thinking of the future; she heard her heart beat distinctly, and would, perhaps, have endeavoured to count its throbs had she not felt irresistibly compelled to listen to a most inharmonious and lamentable ditty sung by the cook as she scoured her kitchen furniture near an open window. Some vague ideas of the happiness of those whose thoughts never soar beyond the polishing of pots and pans, or the concocting of meats within them, floated through her mind; and then appeared a vision of a nunnery garden, with very green grass and long gravel walks; and then Hamilton rustled the paper of his letters, and she expected him to speak, and when he did not she again listened to the monotonous song, and wondered if it had no end.

The song continued, but she ceased to hear it, for Hamilton spoke at length, and she turned round to answer him.

“These letters contain the recall I have been expecting,” he said, folding them up, “and also a large sum of money for my journey, more, much more than I shall require; my uncle measures my expenses by my brother’s. In short, neither he nor any of my family have in the least degree comprehended my position here; their ignorance would shock you——” He stopped, evidently embarrassed. His uncle’s letter would, indeed, have shocked her; he had offered to send Hamilton any sum of money necessary to buy off the claims which Hildegarde or her family might have upon him.

“I suppose,” said Hildegarde, “they expect you home directly.”

“They rather wish me to visit the Z—’s, as they have become acquainted lately with some of their connections.”

“And you intend to do so?”

“Yes, I have no particular wish to return home directly, though I see they expect me in about a fortnight or three weeks.”

“In that case you will have to leave us soon—very soon.”

“How soon?” asked Hamilton, endeavouring to catch a glimpse of her face, which was, perhaps purposely, averted.

“You are the best judge of that,” she answered, rising from her lowly seat; “if leaving us be disagreeable to you, the sooner you get over it the better.”

“It is more than disagreeable—it is painful to me.” He paused, and then added, hastily, “I shall take your advice and leave to-morrow.” More than a minute he waited for her to speak again, one word or one look might at that moment have changed all his plans, but finding that she remained silent, he slowly gathered up his letters, and walked thoughtfully into the house.

Madame Rosenberg talked more than enough; she thought it necessary to put the whole house in commotion, and was so anxious to prove to him that all his clothes were in order, that she followed him to his room, and actually herself packed all his portmanteaux and cases; she then seated herself on one of the former, and began to question him about what he intended to do with Hans, the horses, and phaeton.

“I shall take Hans to England with me, and leave the horses at Munich to be sold. I dare say Stultz will take the trouble of looking after them for me.”

“Dear me, how surprised he will be—and Crescenz—and Lina Berger. Really, the whole thing is so unexpected, that one has no time to think, or feel, or understand——”

“That is just what I wished,” said Hamilton; “I hope not to have time to think or feel, for I leave your house most unwillingly, but leave it I must, as my father and uncle expect me home in a week or two, and I am going first to the Z—’s.”

“Pray give the Baroness my compliments,” said Madame Rosenberg; “it was very civil of her taking the children home—that evening, you know.”

Hamilton remembered the evening, but he thought it was very probable he should forget the compliments.

“Sorry as I am to lose you,” continued Madame Rosenberg, “I must say I think your relations are right to insist on your return; as my father said yesterday, a young man with your capabilities being allowed to waste your time as you have been doing, is perfectly incomprehensible.”

“My object was to learn German, and I have learned it,” said Hamilton.

“It would have been better for you if Hildegarde and Crescenz had not spoken French so well. My father says, too, you speak English now with Hildegarde; I’m sure I don’t know how she learned it. I never could learn French, though I have often tried, and I am not a stupid person in other things. I’m very glad, however, that she has learned English, though I formerly thought it unnecessary. Four languages for a girl not yet eighteen is pretty well, as poor dear Franz used to say, and——”

“Four languages,” repeated Hamilton; “what is the fourth?”

“Why, do you not know that she speaks and writes Italian quite as well as French? Mademoiselle Hortense is a half Italian, and she spared no pains in teaching her, most fortunately, as it has turned out, for the lady with whom she is likely to be placed particularly requires Italian, as she is going to Italy next year.”

“So Hildegarde is to leave you also?”

“Yes. I was at first very unwilling, and, indeed, should not have consented were I still in Munich; but, you see, here she is never likely to marry, and after her sister has made such an excellent match, she would not be satisfied with our FÖrster, Mr. Weidmann, I am afraid.”

“I should think not,” said Hamilton.

“Now, as she is certainly remarkably handsome,” continued Madame Rosenberg, “and within the last year greatly improved, too, I should not at all wonder if, at Frankfort or Florence, she were to pick up someone——”

“Not at all unlikely,” observed Hamilton.

“Or if old Count Zedwitz were to die, perhaps his son might again——”

Hamilton began to stride up and down the room with unequivocal signs of irritation.

“I see all this is uninteresting to you,” said Madame Rosenberg, placing her hands on her knees to assist her in rising from her low, unsteady seat. “How can I expect you to care who she marries, or where she goes, or, indeed, what becomes of any of us now? In a few weeks you will have forgotten us altogether!”

“How little you know me!” cried Hamilton, taking her hand as she was passing him; “I shall never forget you, or the happy days passed in your house, and am so sincerely attached to you and all your family, that nothing will give me greater pleasure than hearing of or from you. I shall leave you my address in London, and hope that you, and your father, and the children, will often write to me. When Fritz comes home for the holidays I shall expect a long letter, not written from a copy, and in his best handwriting, but unrestrained, and telling me everything about you all.”

“Well, I really believe you do like us,” cried Madame Rosenberg, the tears starting to her eyes; “but, after all, not as well as we like you; and now, I think I had better leave you, or else I shall make an old fool of myself.”

Hamilton’s hours that day were winged; they flew past uneasily, like birds before an approaching storm. The afternoon, evening, and night came; Mr. Eisenmann dozed, Madame Rosenberg inspected her sleeping children, and Hildegarde and Hamilton for the first time sat gravely and silently beside each other; neither of them had courage to attempt the mockery of unconcerned conversation; each equally feared a betrayal of weakness, and it was a relief to both when the time for moving arrived. Mr. Eisenmann retired quietly to his room on the ground floor; Madame Rosenberg, after wishing Hamilton good-night, took the house-keys out of the cupboard and commenced her usual nightly examination of all the windows and doors. Hamilton sprang up the stairs, and watched at the door of his chamber until he heard Hildegarde separate from her mother and begin to ascend; he waited until she had deposited her candle and work-basket on the table in her room, and as she afterwards advanced to close the door, he called her out on the lobby, and said, hurriedly, “Hildegarde, I shall have no opportunity of speaking to you alone to-morrow, and must take advantage of this to ask you to forgive and forget all my faults and failings.”

“I cannot remember any,” said Hildegarde.

“You say so, but I know you think that I endeavoured to gain your affections without any fixed purpose. That is true—I mean, this was true until lately—but that is of no importance now. Then, I must confess I—I was not sorry for the unpleasant termination of the affair with Zedwitz. I now, too, see that I ought not to have come here with you, still less should I have endeavoured to make you jealous or——”

“Oh, I give you absolution for all,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him, “and hope you will endeavour to forget how often you have seen me impatient or in a passion.”

“I have already forgotten it, and wish I could forget everything else besides that has occurred during the last eleven months. We have been eleven months together, have we not?”

“I believe so,” answered Hildegarde, thoughtfully. “It appears to me much longer; my life has been so different from what it was before that time, I feel almost as if I had known you eleven years.”

The sound of closing doors no longer distant made Hamilton whisper anxiously, “I shall not find it easy to part from you with becoming firmness before so many witnesses to-morrow, Hildegarde; still less should I have courage to entreat you once more to accept the little watch which you so unkindly returned to me last Christmas. Will you again refuse it?”

“No,” she replied, “although I should have greatly preferred something of less value; I only wish I had something to bestow in return; but I have nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“Stay,” said Hamilton, with some hesitation, “you have something which you value highly, though I do not know why; a little mysterious bauble, which I should like to possess.”

“Name it, and it is yours,” said Hildegarde, eagerly.

He placed his finger on the hair bracelet which she constantly wore.

“Ah! my bracelet!” cried Hildegarde, with a look of surprise, “if you wish for it, certainly; in fact it is better.” She held her arm towards the door of her room, that the light from the candle might fall on it, and Hamilton thought he saw tears in her eyes as she endeavoured to unclasp it.

“I only value it because you appear so attached to it,” he said, half apologetically. “Before it comes into my possession, however, you must tell me whose hair I am about to guard so carefully for the rest of my life; not Mademoiselle Hortense’s I hope.”

“No,” said Hildegarde, holding it towards him.

“Tell me whose hair it is!” he cried eagerly, for Madame Rosenberg’s heavy step and the jingling of her large keys became every moment more audible. As she approached the staircase, he again repeated, “Whose hair?” but Hildegarde, instead of answering, sprang into her room just as a long ray of light from her mother’s candle reached the spot where they stood. Madame Rosenberg found Hamilton’s door shut, and Hildegarde on her knees beside her bed, with her head buried in her hands.

And Hamilton never suspected that the bracelet he examined so long and earnestly that night was made of his own hair, obtained at the time he had been wounded in the head, by the fall from, or rather with, his horse.

The whole family were assembled at an early hour the next morning to witness his departure. Madame Rosenberg unreservedly applied her handkerchief to her eyes; her father looked grave; the two little boys, half frightened at the unusual solemnity of the breakfast table, whispered and nudged each other, while Hildegarde, pale as the wife of Seneca, was apparently the only unmoved person present.

Hamilton took leave of all the workmen and servants, shook hands with Mr. Eisenmann, was kissed in the most maternal manner on both cheeks by Madame Rosenberg, embraced the little boys, and held Hildegarde’s hand in his just long enough to cause a transient blush to pass over her features and make her look like herself.

After he had driven off, he turned round in the carriage to take a last look, and it seemed to him as if her beautiful features had turned to marble, so cold and statue-like were they. Madame Rosenberg was returning into the house, talking to her cook; the old man was gayly playing with the children; Hildegarde stood alone, motionless, on the spot where he had left her.

“Is that indifference?” thought Hamilton.