“But I dare say I could find many parts which I should have no objection to read aloud.” “Read then,” said Hamilton, with a provoking smile. Hildegarde began. “The style at least is faultless,” she observed, at the end of a few minutes. “Perfect,” said Hamilton; “but go on.” She continued. By degrees her voice became less firm; a deep blush overspread her face; she turned away her head from him, and his eyes rested on her small and now perfectly crimson ear, and yet she persevered until the words almost seemed to suffocate her, when, throwing down the book, she exclaimed, “You were right. I will not read any more of it, nor any of the others recommended by Oscar.” “May I write you a list?” asked Hamilton, eagerly. “Pray do,” cried Hildegarde, turning round. “I promise to read them all.” A leaf was hastily torn out of his pocket-book, a pencil carefully pointed, and two hours scarcely sufficed to bring this most simple business to a satisfactory conclusion, so various were the observations and discussions to which it gave rise. --------------------- CHAPTER XXI. THE STRUGGLE. THE following Sunday Hamilton saw the whole Rosenberg family, with the exception of Hildegarde, walking in the English Gardens. It appeared odd that she should have remained at home when her father was present, and he, for a moment, thought of asking the reason; on consideration, the hope of finding her alone made him turn his horse’s head directly homeward, and, on riding into the yard, he looked up to her window, expecting, as usual, to find her there ready to greet him and admire his horse—but not a human being was visible; even his servant, not expecting his return so early, had disappeared, and he was obliged to lead his horse into the stable himself. He entered the house by the back staircase, visited all the rooms, and even the kitchen, but found all deserted. Madame Rosenberg’s room was also unoccupied, but through the partly open door of it he saw Hildegarde sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, reading so intently that she was perfectly unconscious of his presence. The deep folds of her dark-blue merino dress, with its closely-fitting body, gave a more than usual elegance to her tall, slight figure, as she bent in profile over her book, and Hamilton stood in silent admiration, unconsciously twisting his riding-whip round his wrist, until his eyes rested for the second time on the book which she held in her hand. He started, hesitated, then hastily strode forward and stood before her. Doubt and uncertainty were still depicted on his countenance as Hildegarde looked up; but her dismay, her deep blush, and the childish action of placing the hand containing the volume behind her, were a confirmation of his fears that she was reading the forbidden work. “Excuse me for interrupting you,” he said, with a forced smile;