The period of convalescence was not without its pleasures either, and Hamilton knew how to appreciate them. Hildegarde was obliged to read or talk to him whenever he choose, was forbidden to contradict or quarrel with him, and, when on one day he complained of cold hands, she had been ordered to knit cuffs for him, and had done so with apparent pleasure—then she had learned to play chess in order to take Biedermann’s place when he could not come, and had to submit to be checkmated as often as Hamilton pleased without losing her temper. He had insensibly grown tyrannical, too—upbraided her if she remained long out walking—refused to eat his dinner if she did not bring it to him, and insisted on the whole family spending the evenings in his room, thereby effectually preventing her from going to the Hoffmanns. Among Hamilton’s most constant visitors was Madame Berger, and she was always welcome, for she amused him. “I should like to know,” she said one day, seating herself on the sofa beside him, “I should like to know how long you intend to play invalid? It is astonishing how desponding, almost pusillanimous, you men become when you are in the least ill! I lose all patience when I see the Doctor feeling his own pulse fifty times a day, and consulting half a dozen good friends if his heart beat a little quicker than usual—while I have palpitations every day of my life, and never think of complaining or fancying that I have a diseased heart! My father was even worse than the Doctor; if he had but a cold in his head, he immediately mounted a black silk nightcap with a tassel pendant, wrapped himself up in his dressing-gown, and wandered about the house discovering all sorts of things not intended for his eyes or ears, and finding fault with everybody and everything that came in his way, although at other times the best-natured man imaginable. He had a habit, too, on such occasions, of eating a bowl of soup every half hour, and then imagining it was illness which prevented him from enjoying his meals!” Hamilton laughed, and at the same moment Hildegarde entered the room, carrying a tray, on which was placed a double-handled china basin, the contents of which, notwithstanding the cover, emitted a most savoury odour; the little slice of toasted bread on a plate beside it seeming intended to correct any doubts which might arise as to its being an invalid soup. She placed it on the table before him, removed the cover, and stood in waiting, as he first played with the spoon, and then fastidiously tasted it. “You have not prepared this for me yourself,” he said, looking up discontentedly. “No,” she replied; “I—I heard papa’s voice, and begged Walburg to——” “I knew that,” cried Hamilton, pettishly. “Walburg always forgets the salt. Just taste it yourself, and you will be convinced that I cannot swallow it in its present state.”