Hamilton was longer absent than he had expected. He had overtaken Major Stultz just as he was about to enter his lodgings, had walked up and down the street with him more than an hour in earnest conversation, and had afterwards accompanied him to his rooms. It was past midnight as he quietly entered the house by means of the latch-key given him by Madame Rosenberg, whose voice he heard calling him the moment he had opened the door, and immediately after, her husband, in a long flowered cotton dressing-gown and slippers, appeared and invited him to enter their room. Hamilton hesitated; but on being again called by Madame Rosenberg he courageously advanced. A few oblique rays of moonlight and a dimly-burning night-lamp contended for the honour of lighting the apartment and showing Hamilton a chair near Madame Rosenberg’s bed, which she requested him to occupy while he related circumstantially where he had overtaken Major Stultz, what he had said to him, what Major Stultz had answered, and what chance there was of his forgiving and forgetting Crescenz’s sentimental confession. Hamilton related as much as he thought necessary, and then said he was the bearer of a letter. “A letter! give it to me; that will explain all,” cried Madame Rosenberg. “It is for—for Mademoiselle Crescenz,” said Hamilton, hesitating. “No matter; on such an occasion parents have a right to make themselves acquainted with the true state of the case; besides, I don’t quite trust Crescenz just now, although her father, for the first time in his life, has lectured her severely while you were absent. Franz, light the taper, and let me see what the Major has written.” Hamilton most unwillingly gave up the unsealed letter committed to his charge, and watched Madame Rosenberg with some irritation, as she, with evident pleasure, perused it. A more extraordinary night-dress he had never seen than that on which the light of the taper now fell; he was, as may be remembered from his remarks at Seon, rather fastidious on the subject of nightcaps. Madame Rosenberg’s was interesting from the peculiarity of its form, resembling a paper cornet, the open part next her face being ornamented by a sort of flounce of broad lace, and the whole kept on her head by a foulard kerchief tied under her chin. She wore a jacket of red printed calico, of what she would herself have called a Turkish pattern, the sleeves of which were enormously ample at the shoulders, proving that the fabrication was not of recent date. Her husband held the taper, looked over her shoulder, and seemed exceedingly pleased with the contents of the letter, which Madame Rosenberg returned to Hamilton, saying, “I perceive you have very nearly said what I recommended, and we are very much obliged to you. It really would have been a most unpleasant business had this marriage been broken off, and the Major more than hinted he would do so.” “You are detaining Mr. Hamilton, my dear Babette,” observed Mr. Rosenberg, mildly.