Hamilton, who was, as usual, sitting near the stove, pretended to be wholly occupied with a book; his eyes, nevertheless, wandered perpetually over it, towards Hildegarde, who now began strangely to interest him. As the door closed on her mother, her hands fell listlessly on her lap, and by degrees became clasped round her knee, while she gazed steadfastly on the floor for several minutes. She then raised her head, and having looked at her sister for some time, turned towards Hamilton, but so slowly that he was able to fix his eyes on his book, although he coloured violently in doing so; he thought she must perceive his confusion, and continued pertinaciously to read the words, although they conveyed no idea whatever to his mind. When he had reached the end of the page, he became curious to know whether or not she was still looking at him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he half turned over the leaf, and at the same time raised his eyes without moving his head; he had given himself unnecessary trouble to catch her glance—her eyes met his with the most unconcerned expression possible, and though he felt that he continued to blush, she either did not observe it, or attributed it to the heat of the room. “I wonder that you can sit so near the stove, and that you can read at such a distance from the candle,” she observed, quietly. “I am rather surprised at it myself,” answered Hamilton, pushing his chair close to hers, so as to form a _tête-à-tête_. “Perhaps if I snuff the candle you will be better able to read.” She snuffed the candle out. “Thank you,” said Hamilton, vainly attempting to repress a laugh; “I have no doubt I shall be better able to read now. Perhaps you have done this on purpose to make me feel that I ought to have snuffed the candle myself.” “Oh, no, indeed,” said Hildegarde, joining half unwillingly in the laughter, “I happened to overhear something which Crescenz said, and then I looked up and——” Crescenz rose from her chair, looked at them for a moment, and then, in a voice of ill-suppressed emotion, stammered out: “They—they—are laughing at me—at us!” “No, oh no!” cried Hildegarde, eagerly, taking up the extinguished candle to light it. “No, indeed, Mr. Hamilton is laughing because I have snuffed out the candle, and I am laughing I don’t know what for,” she added with a sigh. “I am sure I never felt less inclined to be merry in my life.” Crescenz sat down again, but followed her sister with her eyes as she turned to her place. Major Stultz in vain talked of his yellow sofa and six chairs, and asked her whether he should buy a long or a round table for her drawing-room; or proposed purchasing both, if she wished it. She heard him not, for Hildegarde was again beside Hamilton, and he was leaning on the arm of his chair, and looking at her as Crescenz had never seen him look at anyone before.