“Several years; but may I ask why my brother has so suddenly become an object of interest to you?” “He does not interest me in the least,” began Hildegarde, but at that moment, Hamilton, whose hand had been wandering through the entangled skeins of wool in her basket, suddenly drew forth a small book which had been concealed beneath them; her first impulse was to prevent his opening it, but she changed her mind, and though blushing deeply, continued to work without uttering a syllable. Hamilton turned over the leaves for some minutes in silence. “Who recommended you to read the works of Georges Sand?” he asked, as he placed the book beside her on the table. “Oscar; he told me they were interesting, and extremely well written.” “They are both the one and the other, and yet nothing would have induced me to advise you to read them, especially this volume. I am surprised you did not yourself perceive that it was not suited for a person of your age or——” “Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently. “Mamma wishes me to read French that I may not forget the language; the best writers of the day are, of course, the best for that purpose, and Oscar says all French novels are more or less of this description. He told me that I need not have any scruples, for that these works were written by a woman, and might therefore be read by one.” “So, then, you had scruples?” “I have none at present,” said Hildegarde, taking up the volume, “besides,” she added, drawing her chair close to the table, “I positively must know whether or not the heroine marries the young poet.” “Marry!” cried Hamilton, laughing, ironically, “there is not one word of marriage in the whole book—that would be much too unpoetical. I can hardly, however, imagine that _this_ heroine really interests you—a heroine whose thoughts and reasonings are those of a woman who has plunged into the whirlpool of earthly pleasures, and from satiety learned to despise them. I wish it were any of the other works of Sand, or—or that, for your sake, Madame Dudevant had been less gloriously graphical in some parts of her work. If,” he added, half inquiringly, “if you merely read to know the end of the story, it is easily told; the events are few, and I am ready to relate them to you.” “Oscar has a much higher opinion of my intellect than you have,” observed Hildegarde, slowly turning over the leaves; “he says my character is so decidedly formed, that I may read, without danger, whatever I please.” “That was gross flattery,” said Hamilton, “for no girl of seventeen can read a work of this description without danger. The religious speculations alone make it unfit for you—but stay, I can prove it; read half a dozen pages aloud for me—where you please; the chances are in my favour that I prove myself right.” “It is not exactly adapted for reading aloud,” said Hildegarde with some embarrassment. “That is an infallible criterion by which you may know what to read for the next ten years,” said Hamilton.