“I knew it, I knew it; she is coming,” cried Crescenz;—but it was only Hildegarde, who brought the empty teapot to refill it. She looked very grave when she heard what had occurred, and proposed Hamilton’s accompanying her to the drawing-room, as he might be missed and Major Stultz displeased; he felt that she was right, and followed silently. His tea was unanimously praised, but Madame Rosenberg exhibited some natural consternation on hearing that the whole contents of her paper cornet, with which she had expected to regale her friends at least half-a-dozen times, had been inconsiderately emptied at once into the teapot! “It was no wonder the tea was good! English tea, indeed! Anyone could make tea after that fashion! But then, to be sure, English people never thought about what anything cost. For her part she found the tea bitter, and recommended a spoonful or two of rum.” On her producing a little green bottle, the company assembled around her with their tea-cups, and she administered to each one, two, or three spoonfuls, as they desired it. In the meantime Mr. Rosenberg sat in the adjoining dark bedroom at the card-table—sometimes shuffling, sometimes drumming on the cards, and whistling indistinctly. Hildegarde had observed an expression of impatience on his face, and, to prevent inquiries about the lamp, she quietly brought candles from the drawing-room and placed them beside him. “Thank you, Hildegarde,” said her father, more loudly than he generally spoke; “thank you, my dear; you never forget my existence, and even obey my thoughts sometimes.” “Why, where’s the lamp?” cried Madame Rosenberg; “where’s the lamp? What on earth can Crescenz have done with the lamp?” “Broken it, most probably,” said Mr. Rosenberg, dryly. “Hildegarde, place a chair for Major Stultz. She’s a good girl, after all, Major! a very good girl, I can tell you.” “No doubt, no doubt,” replied the Major, bowing over the proffered chair. “Go and see why your sister does not bring the lamp,” cried Madame Rosenberg impatiently. As Hildegarde slowly and with evident reluctance walked to the door, she unconsciously looked towards Hamilton; he was listening very attentively to the rhapsody of sense and nonsense poured forth by the Doctor’s wife, who occasionally stopped to shake back, with a mixture of childishness and coquetry, the long fair locks which at times half concealed her face. Hamilton, however, saw the look, understood it, and gazed so fixedly at the door, even after she had closed it, that his companion observed it, and said abruptly: “Why did you look so oddly at Hildegarde; and why do you stare at the door after she has left the room?” “If you prefer my staring at you, I am quite willing to do so.” “You know very well I did not mean any such thing,” she cried with affected pettishness; “can you not be serious for a moment, and answer a plain question?”