“You are right—I see—I understand now,” cried Crescenz, with tears in her eyes: “I ought not to have repeated what you said before Mr. Hamilton, because he might think, perhaps, you liked him as I do—did, I mean to say—that is, he might fancy——” “You tiresome girl, can you not at least be silent?” cried Hildegarde, stamping with her foot. “Mr. Hamilton may fancy what he pleases, but he knows that I disliked him from the commencement of our acquaintance, and if I did begin to think better of him, I have again returned to my first opinion—he is in no respect better than others; and had he anything to boast of, I am sure he would do so quite as inconsiderately as Oscar or anyone else.” “I _hope_ you are mistaken,” said Hamilton, quietly lighting his bedchamber candle, “but as I have never been put to the proof, I cannot answer for myself.” Crescenz hung her head, and looked uneasily towards her sister, who was about to reply, when Madame Rosenberg appeared at the door, and they all prepared to retire for the night. Hamilton did not, as was his usual custom, linger at the door to continue the interrupted conversation, or talk some nonsense not adapted for the rational ears of their mother; he walked quickly to his room, seated himself at the table, and taking out his journal, was soon employed in writing the events of the day, with copious reflections. He was angry, very angry with Hildegarde, and yet, by some strange process of reasoning, he firmly persuaded himself that not a particle of jealousy was mixed with his just indignation. He began to suspect that his admiration for her person had induced him to give her credit for virtues which she did not possess; he was even ready to allow that he had greatly overrated her in every respect; but still the idea of her becoming his first love had that day so completely taken possession of his mind that it would not be banished, and imagining himself, as a younger son, privileged to fall in and out of love as often as he pleased, with perfect impunity, he determined at once to enter the lists, and break a lance with Count Raimund. In England his position was known; Crescenz had already forced him to be explicit on the subject, and had, he supposed, informed her sister; he therefore conceived he had a right to pay to Hildegarde all the attention she would accept, while her opinion of Count Raimund’s conduct that evening would, he thought, exonerate him from self-reproach, or future blame on her part. This was arguing most sophistically, and judging a few thoughtless words too harshly. He seemed to have forgotten that her mother had accused her of inordinate family pride, and it was this, perhaps, alone which had made her blind to her cousin’s faults, and explained, if it could not excuse, the utterance of opinions so unlike any that Hamilton had ever heard her express. He recollected, however, with peculiar complacency, the words which Crescenz had repeated