Hamilton did not answer; he had turned to Crescenz, and was now insisting on her waltzing with him, that she might tell him the fault in his dancing. She murmured the words, “_Extra tour_,” which seemed to satisfy Major Stultz and then complied with his request. It was singular that Crescenz did not complain of being held too closely; she was not disposed to find any fault whatever with his performance; and it was with some difficulty that he induced her to say that there was something a little foreign in his manner, and that she believed he did not dance _quite_ so smoothly as a German. “Your sister’s personal dislike seems to influence her judgment on all occasions,” said Hamilton, glancing towards Hildegarde, who, still seated in the same place, was watching them with evident dissatisfaction. “Hildegarde, come and help me to put candles in the candlesticks,” cried Madame Rosenberg; “we cannot let our friends grope about in the dark any longer.” Hildegarde rose; as she passed Hamilton, she said, in a low voice— “For personal dislike, you may say detestation, when you refer to yourself in future.” “Most willingly, most gladly,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “I wish you to hate me with all your heart.” “Then your wish is gratified; I feel the greatest contempt——” “Halt!” cried Hamilton, still laughing, for her anger amused him. “I did not give you leave to feel contempt; I only said you might hate as——” “Hildegarde! Hildegarde!” cried Madame Rosenberg, impatiently—“Why, what on earth is the girl about?” “Quarrelling as usual,” muttered Major Stultz, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh, she is not quarrelsome!” exclaimed Crescenz; “you don’t understand her; she is right—quite right.” “Right to hate me without a cause!” cried Hamilton, pretending great astonishment. “I did not exactly mean—that is—I think—I believe—I am sure Hildegarde does not hate you or anybody,” said Crescenz, confusedly, and retiring hastily to that part of the room which seemed by common consent appropriated to the unmarried female part of the company. At this moment the door opened, and Madame Rosenberg, followed by Hildegarde and the cook, entered the room, carrying lighted candles. A loud ringing of the house-bell was heard, and the cook, having deposited her candles, rushed out of the room to open the door. “I dare say it’s the Bergers,” said Madame Rosenberg, as she walked towards the pianoforte with her candles. “Better late than never. I’m glad she’s come, for she plays waltzes charmingly; and as such days as this do not often occur in a family, we may as well keep it up.” Hamilton looked towards the door, and saw an elaborately dressed and extremely pretty person, with very long and profuse blonde ringlets, leaning on the arm of an elderly man with a protruding chin. His recollection of having heard something about her companion was brought more distinctly to his mind, when he saw Crescenz start forward and embrace her, while she eagerly exclaimed,—