respecting himself, and which Hildegarde had not denied. She had found a resemblance between him and some hero in a novel; that is, she was beginning to make a sort of hero of him, and he had not read and studied with her for so many weeks, without discovering that she had a warm imagination, romantic ideas, and passionate feelings. She did not, it is true, remind him of any particular heroine, nor, on consideration, did she seem adapted to form one at all, for who ever heard of a heroine whose passions “oozed out,” like Bob Acres’ courage, “at the palms of her hands,” or found vent in the clapping of doors and upsetting of chairs—not to mention considerable fluency of language when irritated? But then, her perfect face and figure covered a multitude of faults, her occasional violence of temper was rather amusing than otherwise, and on taking into consideration her extreme youth, it merely proved an energy of character far more interesting than the gentle insipidity of her sister. He perceived that her cousin had made a deep impression on her, and imagined, in consequence, that his quiet and respectful manner had not been appreciated—he remembered having heard his brother say, that very young or very elderly women prefer audacity to deference, and he wished with all his heart that it were morning, that he might begin a new line of operations. A knock at the door surprised him in the midst of these reflections, and made him hastily throw down his pen—scarcely waiting for permission to enter, Hildegarde had partly opened the door, and stood before him, her candle burned down in the socket, and already emitting the fitful gleams of light which precede extinction. “I dare say you are surprised to see me at this hour,” she began. “Not at all,” cried Hamilton, pushing away his table, “not at all, for I have just been thinking of you, and I suppose some sort of sympathy has made you think of me.” “No, not exactly of you,” replied Hildegarde, with a smile, “but I have thought of your candles! You have often offered me one when I wished to read at night, and I always feared it would be dishonourable to take advantage of your offer, as it would be deceiving mamma. To-night, however, I have given her fair warning, so if you will permit me——” Hamilton pushed a candle towards her, and was rather puzzled what to say next: she, in the mean time, very calmly extinguished her light and began to arrange the new one. “I suppose you have half read your book by this time?” said Hamilton at length. “No,” said Hildegarde, while she rolled a piece of paper round the candle. “No, I have been employed in making apologies to Crescenz. You must have thought me abominably rude to her this evening?” “Rather,” replied Hamilton, greatly vexed to find that the determination to be audacious had made him more than usually restrained—almost timid in his manner.