health is not likely to be much benefited by a residence here, if I have to act duenna to you and your sister! Remember, I strictly forbid your walking in these passages after sunset in future. Do you hear?” “Yes, madame.” “As to Crescenz being so afraid of lightning, that’s all nonsense! I should like to know if all the young ladies at school scream in that manner whenever they see a flash of lightning!” “The thunder was very loud,” began Hildegarde; “and, besides, you have not heard that she saw——” “Well, well,” cried her mother, interrupting her, to Hamilton’s great satisfaction, “thunder or lightning—or both—there was no occasion for such a noise, and I give you warning that the very first time I have cause to be dissatisfied with you or your sister, back you shall go to school. Health is my object at present, and every irritation of the nerves has been expressly forbidden by my medical adviser.” To this speech no answer was made, and Hamilton followed them at a distance into the supper-room. He had lost so much time in the organ-loft that almost all of the guests were already gone. The traveller, whose arrival he had witnessed, was in the act of lighting a cigar, with which he immediately left the room. An elderly, red-faced, stout gentleman, with a tankard of beer beside him, he soon discovered to be Major Stultz; nor did it require much penetration to recognise Mr. Schmearer, the painter, in the emaciated, sentimental-looking young man beside whom he seated himself. Hildegarde and her step-mother were nearly opposite; the former, after bestowing on Hamilton a look which might appropriately have accompanied a box on the ear, fixed her eyes on the table; the latter bowed most graciously, and commenced an interesting conversation about the weather, the barometer, and her dislike to thunder-storms in general. When these topics had been completely exhausted, Hamilton hoped something might be said of the present inmates of Seon; but a long and tiresome discussion on the merits of summer and winter beer followed. Strauss’s beer was delicious—bock had been particularly good this year. “Bock!” cried Major Stultz, enthusiastically, “bock is better than champagne! Bock is——” Here he looked up with an impassioned air to the ceiling, and kissed the first two fingers of his right hand, flourishing them in the air afterwards. Words, it seems, were inadequate to express the merits of this beverage. “Did you see that picture at the Kunstverein[1] in Munich, representing a glass of foaming bock, with the usual accessories of bread and radishes?” asked Mr. Schmearer. “It was exquisitely painted! I believe his majesty purchased it.” Footnote 1: Society of Arts. “There is some sense in such a picture as that,” answered Major Stultz. “I went two or three times to see it, and could scarcely avoid stretching out my hand to feel if it were not some deception.”