“Say nothing at all, excepting that I am obliged to her and shall wear the amulet,” replied Hamilton, abruptly turning away. The Countess Zedwitz, her daughter, and son-in-law, arrived before daybreak the next morning. They were at first so agitated that they could not speak a word; Zedwitz, on the contrary, was perfectly calm. “I expected you, mother,” he said, kissing her hand; “I knew you would come to me, but I wish that dear Agnes and Lengheim had remained at home. You must send them back in the course of the day.” The Countess spoke long and earnestly with Doctor Berger, and then returned to her son’s bedside. She told him that his father continued ill and confined to his room; that he wished to see him again; was ready to forget all cause of difference between them, and she hoped, as soon as he could be removed, he would return with her to Edelhof. Zedwitz was too weak to discuss his plans for the future, although immediately after the arrival of his relations he had had a change for the better. At five o’clock Doctor Berger gave hopes of his recovery, and an hour afterwards Hamilton was on his way to the Frauen church. The rain had turned to sleet, and the sleet to snow since he had last been out. Large flakes now fell noiselessly around him; he saw them not—Hildegarde alone, and alternate hopes and fears that he should not, and hopes that he should, see her, occupied his thoughts. There were not many people assembled, but the church is large, the altars numerous, and it was some time before he discovered the kneeling figure of her he sought. Walburg, with her shining braided hair, silver head-dress, and large market-basket on her arm, was standing in the aisle; _her_ prayers seemed ended, for she gazed cheerfully around her, and even nodded occasionally to her basketed acquaintances as they passed. She immediately recognised Hamilton, and stooped down to whisper to Hildegarde, who instantly rose, and Hamilton saw her face suffused with blushes as she walked towards him. They left the church together, and Hildegarde’s first words were, “How pale and tired you look; I hope you are not ill.” “Not in the least,” said Hamilton; and it did not escape his observation that her principal anxiety seemed about himself. “You will be glad to hear that Zedwitz is better at last; we had no hopes of his recovery until about an hour ago.” “So I have already heard from Mr. Biedermann, who was so kind as to call just before I left home.” “Ah, you have seen Biedermann?” “Yes,” and then she added after a pause, “now that Count Zedwitz’s family have arrived, you ought to think of yourself, for even if you do not fear infection, you must remember that unusual fatigue is dangerous at present. You have been two nights without rest—you who require so much more sleep than anyone else, as I heard you tell mamma more than once.”