“That was not what I meant,” said Hildegarde in great confusion. “I dare say mamma is right. For in summer, though I only read in bed from daylight until six o’clock, I have often felt terribly fatigued during the day afterwards—I heard mamma tell papa, that if you were _her_ son, she would go into your room every night at ten o’clock, and put out your candles.” “I do not exactly wish her to be my mother, for the sake of having a living extinguisher, which I should consider rather a bore than otherwise,” said Hamilton, “but if she were my mother, you would of course be my sister, and I should have no objection to that relationship.” “Have you a sister?” asked Hildegarde, abruptly. “Yes, an only sister, and I like her better than all my brothers put together.” “And do you not quarrel with her?” “Never. She is my most intimate friend when I am at home, my principal correspondent when I am abroad. She is the most amiable, the most excellent of human beings!” “Older? much older than you?” asked Hildegarde, with some appearance of interest. “Only a year or two,” replied Hamilton. “We learned French as children together, and afterwards Italian and German. You will take her place to-morrow or the day after, when we begin our studies, and if you wish to learn to speak English, I am quite willing to assist you.” “Oh, delightful!” cried Hildegarde, unconsciously moving her chair quite close to his, and leaning her hand confidentially on the arm of it; “delightful! that is exactly what I have long wished for; but,” she added hesitatingly, “but I fear you will expect me to—to—that is, not to——” “What?” asked Hamilton, with a smile. “Not to say what I think; or—or quarrel in future.” “I made the offer unconditionally; we can fight our battles all the same, whenever you feel disposed.” “If that be the case,” said Hildegarde, apparently much relieved, “I accept your offer, thankfully, and I hope I shall not give you much trouble.” “Suppose you take your first lesson now,” said Hamilton. “As you merely require the pronunciation, let us begin with this book.” He laid it before her as he spoke, and they both turned towards the table. Hildegarde began at once to read, but with the most unintelligible foreign accent he had ever heard. He used his utmost effort to suppress his laughter, and did not venture to correct a single word. At the end of the page she looked up rather surprised, and encountered Hamilton’s eyes brilliant with suppressed mirth, while every other feature of his face was drawn into a forced seriousness of expression, forming altogether so extraordinary a distortion of countenance that she threw herself back in her chair and burst into a fit of laughter. “Why don’t you laugh out, if you feel inclined?” she asked, as Hamilton half covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief. “I really was afraid of offending you,” he replied.