This speech was made with consummate cunning—a more common ingredient in the composition of weak characters than is generally supposed. Major Stultz’s manner had frightened Crescenz—she feared the anger of her step-mother and the reproaches of her father, for she was essentially timid, and the want of moral courage made her affect a simplicity which, although in perfect keeping with her real character, was on the present occasion mere acting, as she had perfectly understood Major Stultz’s meaning. She could not have answered better; he was deceived, and while wiping the perspiration from his crimson face, he begged her to forgive his impatience, said that he had been guilty of entertaining odious suspicions, and though Crescenz continued to blush while he spoke, and would not raise her eyes from the table, he was too generous to distrust her again, and attributed her subsequent embarrassment altogether to timidity. Partly from a jealous recollection of the expression of Hamilton’s eyes, partly from shame at her own duplicity and annoyance at the unmerited praises now lavished on her by her lover, Crescenz began to weep bitterly, and poor Major Stultz was obliged to talk a deal of youthful nonsense in order to restore her equanimity, and induce her to continue the interrupted conversation. In the meantime, the unconscious cause of all the disturbance had indulged in a long scrutiny of Hildegarde’s beautiful profile. She put an end to it by turning to him, and saying with a glance at his book: “You must have been reading French or English—our German letters at such a distance from the light would have been illegible.” “I have been reading Bulwer’s last novel. It is extremely interesting.” “Indeed! I wish you would lend it to me before you send it back to the library.” “Is it possible you understand English, and have never spoken one word to me!” exclaimed Hamilton. “I do not see anything extraordinary in that,” replied Hildegarde, smiling. “You speak French so remarkably well, that I know you have a talent for languages. I dare say you speak English perfectly!” “I cannot speak a word.” “You have not had enough practice, perhaps, but you understand it when it is spoken.” “Not a syllable.” “Then may I ask you what you intend to do with this novel when I lend it to you?” “Read it from daybreak until seven o’clock, and at night as long as my candle lasts,” replied Hildegarde, taking the book from him and looking at the title page. “If you can read that book, and understand it, you must be able to speak a little,” observed Hamilton. “I tell you I can neither speak nor understand English when it is spoken, and yet I can read this novel, if you will lend it to me, quite as well as if it were French or German.” “You have had an odd kind of master!”