“I thought you would have blamed me more,” continued Hildegarde, fastening the candle steadily, “but even your judgment, with all its severity, cannot equal my own in rigour, when the moment of anger is past. Crescenz forgave me directly, and in her good nature tried soon to excuse my loss of temper, and to reconcile me to myself.” “A fault must be forgiven when so acknowledged,” said Hamilton, lightly. “But instead of talking of faults, which, by-the-by, is not the most agreeable subject of conversation, suppose you read me this dream, which was so unpleasantly interrupted this evening.” “Not now,” said Hildegarde, “but I intend to write it out, and we can read it together to-morrow when Mr. Biedermann is gone.” “No time like the present,” said Hamilton, pointing to a place beside him on the sofa. “Come, suppose we read the whole book?” “If it were not so late, I should have no objection.” “From your conversation this evening, I should not have expected you to make difficulties about such a trifle.” “Conversation this evening,” repeated Hildegarde, thoughtfully. “Have you then already forgotten all you said in defence of your cousin?” asked Hamilton, half laughing, while with his hand he gently induced her to take the unoccupied place beside him. “I thought your memory was more retentive.” “But my defence of Oscar has no sort of connection with my remaining here until two or three o’clock in the morning to read Heine’s poems!” said Hildegarde, quietly fixing her large blue eyes on Hamilton’s face, with an expression of such perfect confidence, that his previous resolutions and his brother’s opinion lost at once all influence over him, and not for any consideration would he have shaken the reliance on his integrity legible in every feature of his companion’s face. He blushed deeply, as he answered evasively—“Perhaps there is more connection than you are aware of; but you must wait until to-morrow, and then if you wish it, I will tell you what I meant.” “But why not now? I detest delay—besides, I shall forget to ask you to-morrow.” “No, you will not forget,” said Hamilton, laughing. “But why will you not tell me now?” asked Hildegarde. “Because I fear to shock you unnecessarily.” “But I am not easily shocked,” observed Hildegarde. “So I perceived from what you said this evening.” “It is really not generous of you to harp continually on my defence of Oscar; I am willing to acknowledge that you were quite right in what you said about him—I know, too, I was wrong to be angry with mamma and Crescenz—but I do not like to be so perpetually reminded of my faults by you—you are not old enough—and—and—you bore me with your real or affected superiority.” “Did I affect superiority we should never have quarrelled,” replied Hamilton, with evident vexation; “I only quarrel with my equals.”