“Go to your bed,” cried her mother, interrupting her testily, “and don’t stand shivering there until you get the cholera, too; go to your bed. I assure you,” she said, turning apologetically to Hamilton, “I assure you I don’t mean to be unkind, but I have a family, and it would be awful were the cholera to come among us. Suppose I were to lose Franz, or one of my boys, or even Hildegarde——” “Do not speak of anything so dreadful,” cried Hamilton, instantly seizing the last idea. “Nothing will induce me to return until even the shadow of danger has past.” “And you do not think me ill-natured?” “Not in the least!” Hildegarde was at the door of her room as he was about to pass—he stopped to take leave. “Use whatever precaution you can against infection,” she said, warmly returning the pressure of his hand, “and,” she added, hurriedly, “and don’t be angry when I send you the watch you gave me last night. Papa agrees with me in thinking such a present too valuable to be accepted from a—an acquaintance. Don’t forget to let me know as often as you can by old Hans, how Count Zedwitz is!” Hamilton dropped her hand with an impatient jerk, and hurried from the house, without speaking another word. --------------------- CHAPTER XXV. THE GARRET. “STOP, stop, if you please,” cried Zedwitz’s servant to Hamilton, who was beginning to run down the street, “Count Max is not in his own house—he is here just opposite—at the brazier’s.” “At the brazier’s!” exclaimed Hamilton, “what induced him to go there?” “Don’t know, sir,” replied the man, “he has been lodging there the last week or two.” “Lodging there?” repeated Hamilton, as he crossed the street, “that is an odd idea.” The man opened the house-door with a latch-key, took up a candle which was burning on the staircase, and walked up to the very top of the house. They passed through two or three empty garrets before they reached the one which Zedwitz had chosen for his sleeping apartment. The furniture contrasted strangely with the whitewashed walls, sloping ceilings, and windows protruding from the roof. A handsome bedstead, wardrobe, sofa, several large arm-chairs, and tables covered with writing and drawing materials, found with difficulty, place in the ill-shaped room. A stranger was sitting by the bed; he rose as Hamilton approached. “So they have brought you here, after all,” said Zedwitz; “I hope at least that you have been told the true state of the case—that you know that I have the worst description of cholera?” “You know I do not consider it infectious,” replied Hamilton, “and if I can be of any use, I am prepared to remain with you.” Zedwitz pressed his friend’s hand.