“I am sorry to say that I have some arrangements to make at home, but I shall return as soon as possible.” “Pray do,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann. “I may as well tell you that I have taken such a fancy to you, that I cannot help hoping that we are destined to be very good friends.” “I hope so too,” replied Hildegarde with unusual warmth of manner, and laughing gayly. Hamilton passed the door at the moment, on his return from church, and seemed not a little surprised to find her bestowing so much friendliness on a person he had supposed nearly a stranger. Hildegarde followed him up the stairs, and on entering their apartments, took off her bonnet, and prepared to obey her mother’s directions by bringing in his dinner herself. Hamilton had already become accustomed to these attentions, and therefore her appearance—with a napkin pinned on her dress in the form of an apron, and carrying a little tureen of soup—by no means astonished him. Having placed it on the table, she walked to the window, took up a book, and began to read. “Have you all dined?” asked Hamilton. “Yes, and all are gone too,” replied Hildegarde. “You don’t mean to say that you must remain at home?” asked Hamilton, turning round quickly. “Oh, no, I am to go with the Hoffmanns.” “How did you happen to make that arrangement?” Hildegarde came towards him to explain, stood for a moment behind his chair, then seated herself at the table near him, and while performing her office of waiter, entered into an unusually unrestrained conversation. They talked long and gayly, Hamilton at length beginning to think he would prefer staying at home with her to going to the _fête_, and was actually as much annoyed as she was surprised, when the Hoffmanns’ servant announced the carriage, and said they were waiting for her. The day was clear and warm, the sky cloudless, and of that deep blue almost unknown in England. The sun shone brightly on the groups of merry pedestrians, who still continued to pour out of the town and its environs, towards the Thérèsian meadows. Notwithstanding the warm sunbeams, each peasant carried under his arm an enormous red or yellow umbrella. Many were furnished with cloaks, and some were dressed in the mountain costume, with which Hamilton had become acquainted at Berchtesgaden; but, in strong contrast to their picturesque appearance, there were others from the plains, with their long coats almost reaching to their heels—two large buttons between their shoulders, as if to mark the waist, and broad-brimmed, low-crowned hats. The cloth of which these most ugly garments were made was good, and in many cases fine. The hats, too, were shining, and decorated with thick gold tassels, and even the most careless observer could not fail to remark the absence of any appearance of poverty.