“That was only an excuse for my unpardonable laziness,” replied Hamilton, smiling; “I intend to go to Havard’s to dress and breakfast before I return to Zedwitz. Have you any message for him. I shall deliver it faithfully.” “None, excepting my good wishes,” said Hildegarde, turning away. “Walburg, you may now go to the grocer’s—I can walk home alone. Good-morning, Mr. Hamilton.” Hamilton bowed gravely, waited with due propriety until Walburg was quite out of sight, and then ran after Hildegarde, and endeavoured, while still panting for breath, to thank her for the amulet, and her kind anxiety on his account. “My father more than shares my anxiety about you,” she said, calmly; “he was greatly distressed at hearing that mamma had in a manner banished you from our house. Should you get the cholera now, and not be properly taken care of, how could we write to your family? What could we say to them?” “You mean in case of my death? By-the-by, I never thought of that. Do not walk so fast—I want to speak to you, and I know you must dismiss me at the next turn. Should I die of cholera——” “It is time enough to talk of death when you are ill,” said Hildegarde, hastily. “No, it will be too late then. Twenty-four hours are more than enough to finish a man’s life now. Will you undertake to write to my sister and arrange my effects?” “Are you joking?” “Not in the least. You will find in a rosewood case a number of papers—a journal in fact. These papers must be carefully sealed and addressed to my sister. There is also a miniature——” “I know,” said Hildegarde. “How do you know,” cried Hamilton, stooping forward to catch a glimpse of her features, “how do you know anything about that?” “Lina Berger examined your dressing-case one evening when she was in your room. Crescenz was present, and naturally told me of the miniature—I often reminded her of it.” “Indeed! And for what purpose?” “To prevent her forgetting that you had not even a heart to bestow on her.” “You are right. But to return to the miniature; the original possesses, indeed, a large portion of my affection——” Hamilton stopped; he had flattered himself that his companion would, in some way, betray feelings either of jealousy or curiosity, but she walked on steadily without looking at him; and when he paused, she observed, “You must make haste; we are just at the corner; you need not tell me about the original, but say what you wish me to do with the picture.” “Should we never meet again, unfeeling girl,” said Hamilton, half laughing, “you must send the picture to my father, for it is my sister Helen’s portrait.” As he spoke, they had reached the place where he knew he must leave her; she stopped, and said quickly, “Mr. Hamilton, I have in this instance done you great injustice; I thought your heart was bestowed on the original of the miniature. Without this explanation I should certainly have regarded your conduct towards us as unpardonably—heartless!”