“Another argument against you, Hildegarde!” cried Madame Rosenberg, triumphantly. “Why should he dislike you more than another, if you were not less amiable? Your own words condemn you!” “Be it so,” said Hildegarde, with some emotion. “No one loves me but—but—my father.” “_I_ love you, Hildegarde,” whispered Crescenz, gently taking her sister’s hand, and, at the same time, looking timidly towards her step-mother, “I love you too.” “I shall soon see _your_ affection decline; it cannot be otherwise,” said Hildegarde, bending over her work to conceal the large tears which stood in her eyes, ready to fall when she could permit them to do so unperceived. Madame Rosenberg was not a person of much observation, although possessed of a good deal of common sense. She heard the words, and answered to them. “Of course, when Crescenz marries, you cannot expect any longer to be her first object; Major Stultz will, and ought to take your place in her affections—it is the way of the world—the law of nature!” Hildegarde’s work dropped from her hands. Hamilton, who was sitting beside her, picked it up; and as she stooped to take it from him, the tears which he had been watching in stolen glances, now, to his infinite dismay, fell slowly on his hand. He started, as if they had hurt him; and then, under pretence of seeking a book, left the room, hoping to find the discussion at an end on his return. He was mistaken; on again opening the door, Madame Rosenberg was speaking with even more than usual volubility. “The fact is, Hildegarde, you cannot pardon my being a smith’s daughter; although I was a much better match for your father than his first wife, with all her fine relations! What’s the use of being a countess when one is penniless? Your mother had not even a respectable _trousseau_—there is scarcely anything remaining to be given to Crescenz; and you know yourself, your relations have been so unkind that your father never intends to allow you to visit them; and I am quite sure were you to meet them in the street they would look away to avoid bowing to you. Take my advice, Hildegarde, forget that your mother was a Countess Raimund, remember that your father is plain Franz Rosenberg; and though your mother is a smith’s daughter, you ought not to forget that many of the comforts of your home come from her, and the produce of the much despised iron works. Cease to fancy yourself a martyr to a cruel step mother; I might be a great deal worse than I am; if you find me sometimes a little strict, it is only for your good, and necessary, too, at your age! As to your refusal of the Major, I shall never mention it again—he has not gone out of the family, you know; if he had not proposed to Crescenz, I could not have got over the loss or forgiven you so easily. You must endeavour to correct your irritability of temper, and I am sure in time everyone will like you; even Mr. Hamilton will overcome his dislike to you.”