“Hear me at least,” he said eagerly. “I could not endure the thought of your being one jot less perfect than I had imagined you—that made me suspicious; the wish for proof made me rough; and though I cannot exactly justify my subsequent conduct, I plead in extenuation your own words, ‘the temptation was great.’” Hildegarde’s dimples showed that a smile was with difficulty repressed, and Hamilton, taking courage, whispered hurriedly, “But one word more—hear my last and best excuse; it is, that I love you, deeply, passionately; but I need not tell you this, for you must have known it long, long ago. Hildegarde, say only that our perpetual quarrels have not made you absolutely hate me!” Hildegarde, without uttering a word more, impetuously drew back her hand, sprang into her room, and locked the door. He waited for a minute or two, and then knocked, but received no answer. “Hildegarde,” he cried, reproachfully, “is this right—is this kind? Even if you dislike me, I have a right to expect an answer.” “Go,” she said, in a very low voice; “go away. You ought not to be here when I am alone.” “Why did you not think of that before?” “I don’t know. I had not time. I——” “Nonsense. Open the door, and let me speak to you for a moment.” No answer, but he thought he heard her walking up and down the room. “Only one moment,” he repeated. “I cannot, indeed I cannot. Pray go away.” He retired slowly to his room; even before he reached it he had become conscious of the absurdity of his conduct, and the prudence of hers. That she no longer disliked him, he was pretty certain; that she had so discreetly avoided a confession of other feelings was better for both, as it enabled them to continue their intercourse on the same terms, while the acknowledgment of a participation in his affection would have subjected her to great annoyances, and placed him in a most embarrassing situation. He was angry with himself—recollected, with shame, that he had repeated the error which he had so much cause to regret on a former occasion, and mentally repenting his own loquaciousness and rejoicing at Hildegarde’s taciturnity, he resolved never to refer to the subject again. A ring of the bell at the entrance-door induced him to stop and await her appearance. She did not answer the summons, and it was repeated, accompanied by a few familiar taps on the door. Still she did not move. Again the bell was rung; the knocks became louder, as if administered by some hard instrument, and finally her name was loudly and distinctly pronounced. “I am coming, papa,” she cried at last, running forward, and opening the door precipitately. Count Raimund sprang into the passage, closed the door with his shoulder, leaned upon it, and burst into a fit of laughter at the dismay legible on the features of his cousin. “Oscar,” she began, seriously, “you must come some other day, mamma is not at home, and I have been left to——”