“Oh, laugh as much as you please—but since we have returned from Seon—you have become quite a different person!” “Did Lina put that into your head also?” asked Hildegarde, quickly. “Oh, no,” cried Crescenz, while her eyes filled with tears, “I did not require Lina to point that out to me. Silly as you think me—I can feel—you are quite changed.” Hildegarde bit her lip—walked to the window—came hastily back again, and throwing her arms round her sister, kissed her cheek, while she whispered: “Dear girl, I am not in the least changed in my affection for you; but you know yourself that every word I speak to you is repeated to Lina Berger; and how can you expect me to trust you?” “But,” said Crescenz, looking up, “but you know I often repeated what you said when we were at school, and you only scolded a little sometimes. Now you scarcely ever get into a passion, and are so cold and so careful what you say—just like Mademoiselle Hortense!” “Like Mademoiselle Hortense?” “Oh, I don’t mean that you have her thick nose and high shoulders,” said Crescenz, smiling through her tears, “but you scarcely take any notice of me, and are always talking of books with Hamilton!” Hildegarde was silent. “And then you speak English now more than French, and Lina says——” “Don’t tell me what she says, don’t name her to me again,” cried Hildegarde, impatiently. “No—no, I won’t,” said Crescenz, alarmed. “Odious person,” continued Hildegarde, turning away, “I can never forgive her for having embittered the last weeks we shall probably ever spend together.” “Well,” said Crescenz, drying her eyes, “at all events, we shall get on better after my marriage. You know you must have a sort of respect for me then.” Hildegarde turned round to see if her sister were joking; but Crescenz looked perfectly serious. “Respect is due to married persons,” she continued, neatly folding up the work which her sister had thrown on the chair. “Mamma says so—and then, you know, I shall be quite another sort of person, when I am the mother of a family——” Hildegarde laughed unrestrainedly. “Madame Lustig says I may have a dozen children! They shall all have pretty names—not one of them shall be called Blazius, that I am determined—they shall be Albert, Maximilian, Ferdinard, Adolph, Philibert.” “Philibert is not a pretty name,” said Hildegarde, interrupting her merrily. “Don’t you think so? Well, we can choose another, Conrad for instance?” “Or Oscar?” “Oh, no, because I should imagine a sort of resemblance to cousin Oscar, and I don’t—quite like him—that is, not very much, though he is my cousin. He is very cross sometimes, indeed almost always to your friend Marie—but, oh! Hildegarde, one very pretty name we have forgotten, and of a very handsome person too—Alfred! Mr. Hamilton, you know—is not Alfred a pretty name?” “Yes.” “And he is certainly handsome? Even you must allow that?”