She did not return, but a tall, gaunt servant appeared to conduct him to Count Zedwitz’s apartment. On entering, he perceived that a figure lay on a bed, but so wrapped in blankets and covered with down beds, that nothing was visible but the face, down which the perspiration rolled copiously. A reading-desk was placed on the breast, and a long quill, tightly pressed between the teeth, served to turn over the leaves of his book. Hamilton would have required some time to discover the use of the quill, had it not been performing its office as he entered. “I am rejoice to see you—very glad you have become my letter, and seem to profit by it. You are good on the feet again?” “Thank you,” said Hamilton, rather puzzled by this address, and half-disposed to refuse the chair placed for him by the servant. “You have been to Graefenberg?—No?” “No.” “You have recover without Preissnitz?” “Recover!” repeated Hamilton; “I have never been seriously ill in my life, colds and all that sort of thing excepted—mere trifles, after all!” “Trifles! well, you Englishmen have odd idea!—Rheumatism is trifle!” “Gout is more common with us,” observed Hamilton, somewhat amused. “Well, gout, chicagra, podagra, rheumatism, what you will, is no trifle at all! You have had the gout?” “No; but I suppose I shall in time: it is hereditary in our family—my father has two or three attacks every year.” “Your father! is it your father who has had the gout?” “Yes, and I suspect my father is your correspondent, too. I really fear I am not the person you suppose me to be.” “What! what, what do you mean?” he cried, endeavouring to raise himself in his bed, and looking precisely like a writhing caddice-worm. “I mean that I received a letter the day before yesterday, inviting me to come here; the seal was a coronet, and it was signed A. Z. I arrived; made inquiries, and too hastily, it seems, concluded that Count Zedwitz, or one of his family, had written to me. Your daughter confirmed me in my error by saying that you had lately written to an Englishman in Munich, and wished very much to see him.” “Hum, ha!—very odd!” murmured the Count, fixing his eyes sharply on Hamilton. “May I ask your name?” “Hamilton,” replied the Englishman, with an ill-concealed attempt to repress an inclination to laugh. “I have not the honour of knowing any one of that name,” said the Count, endeavouring, as well as his blankets would permit him, to look dignified. “I am surprised, sir, you did not perceive the mistake sooner!”