Hamilton rode as fast as the crowd would permit, wishing, considerately, that all nurses and children had remained at home, and wondering what business they could have at an agricultural _fête_ and races. Then he thought of Hildegarde—Hildegarde as he had last seen her, gay and unrestrained, laughingly giving her opinion of the Hoffmanns, and relating with what self-possession Mademoiselle de Hoffmann had spoken of her intended marriage; and then she had taken the half of his bunch of grapes with a sort of unconscious familiarity flattering from its rarity. He had for some time been aware of a change in her manner, and he now began to hope that a feeling of good-will towards himself had been the cause; in this, he was, however, partly mistaken—the reconciliation or explanation with her step-mother had mostly effected the change. She felt that she had been unjustly prejudiced against both, and, ever ready to act from impulse, she now went from one extreme to the other, and at once gave Madame Rosenberg credit for virtues which she scarcely possessed—blamed herself unnecessarily, and received any remains of severity on the part of her step-mother, as a deserved punishment for her former unwarrantable dislike. Madame Rosenberg had not been insensible to the alteration which had taken place—she had more than once observed to her husband, “That Hildegarde was really a warm-hearted girl, and not nearly so often in a passion as she used to be. There was nothing like a mother’s care to form a girl’s character; she now understood how to manage her, and expected in time to like her quite as well as Crescenz.” Hamilton, on reaching the Thérèsian meadow, looked round for the object of his thoughts—in a crowd of eight or ten thousand persons, the search was not immediately successful. The royal family had long been on the tribune, and the King was distributing the last prizes as Hamilton arrived. A movement in the crowd soon after commenced, which denoted preparations for the races; Hamilton rode towards the place where the jockeys were assembled, but when there, his horse became suddenly restive—he shied, reared, pranced, leaped forwards and sideways, and Hamilton, had he not been a practised rider, would have found it no easy matter to keep his seat. At length the animal seemed to become aware of the power of his rider, for his capers ceased by degrees, and he merely bent his head and tore up the ground with his fore-foot. Hamilton was about to return to the interrupted inspection of the jockeys and their horses, when a voice close to him observed, “You seemed alarmed for the safety of your English friend, mademoiselle—ask him if he will not give his horse to our servant, and look at the races from the carriage.”