Such influence had Hildegarde acquired over Hamilton, that the fear of incurring her displeasure prevented him from laughing aloud, or at first even looking up; after some time, however, pressing his lips firmly against his book, his eyes glanced over it with a mixed expression of mirth and curiosity, from one sister to the other. Crescenz seemed embarrassed, but there was not a particle of either dislike or impatience in the look which she bestowed on the sleeper. She bent towards her sister, and said in a whisper, “If I could manage to put a sofa cushion on the back of the chair!” “An excellent idea,” said Hildegarde, taking up one, and preparing to assist her. “Give me the cushion, and do you move his head,” said Crescenz, timidly. “No, dear, that is your office,” replied her sister, half laughing. “But if he should wake,” cried Crescenz, drawing back. “He will scarcely be angry,” said Hildegarde, approaching with the cushion. Crescenz took it from her, and began to insinuate it between his head and the chair—her movements were so gentle that she succeeded without awakening him—his mouth closed with a slight jerk, while uttering a grunt of sleepy satisfaction, as his chin dropped on his breast. Nothing could be less attractive than Major Stultz’s face at this moment, with his puffed-out crimson cheeks and wrinkled double chin—but Crescenz saw him not; with a good-humoured smile she tried to arrange still better the supporting cushion, and then stood behind him with all the immovable serenity of a Caryatid. Hildegarde walked to the window, and holding her hands at each side of her temples, endeavoured to look out into the darkness. “We shall have rain, I fear,” she observed to Hamilton, who had followed her. He opened the window—it was a cold, cheerless night, the flickering lamps throwing unsteady gleams of light across the street. “The weather is not very inviting,” said Hildegarde, drawing back into the warm room with a slight shudder. Hamilton leaned out for some time in silence, and then whispered—“Who is that?” He pointed to the opposite side of the street, where a figure, muffled in a cloak, had been standing opposite the house, and now began to walk quickly away. “Do you know who that was?” “I think it was Count Zedwitz,” answered Hildegarde. “You knew he was there? You came to the window to see him?” “No,” said Hildegarde, quietly. “Then how could you know him so directly?” “I recognised the cloak he used to wear at Seon.” “Ah—yes—true—poor fellow!” said Hamilton. “How inclined you are to suspect me!” said Hildegarde, reproachfully. “One might suspect, without blaming you, for giving Zedwitz a gleam of hope to lighten his despair.” “I should blame myself, for it would be unpardonable coquetry!” “Coquetry! when you really love him!” “Love him!” repeated Hildegarde, hastily—“No—yes—that is, I like him—I like him very much.”