The ball at Court was not in the least less brilliant than any of the preceding, but Hamilton was not disposed to admire the rooms, or the fresco paintings, or the candelabra, or even his own form in the long glass, placed so conveniently at the door of one of the reception-rooms. Figures in blue and pink crape passed and repassed him scarcely observed, so completely had a form in white, with a wreath of roses in her hair, taken possession of his imagination. His abstraction attracted even the notice of royalty, and it was with a deep blush that Hamilton stammered some excuse when asked why he did not dance as usual. At ten o’clock he withdrew, bounded down the stairs which he had thought so tiresome to mount a couple of hours before, found his carriage waiting, and drove to the Museum. The contrast was great, but he heeded it not; Hildegarde was every thing to him. He glanced quickly round the room, and immediately discovered the object of his search walking composedly towards the dancers with a tall officer in the Guards; he was about to leave the room again in a fit of uncontrollable irritation, when he remembered his engagement with Crescenz. The moment she saw him, she spoke a few words eagerly to Major Stultz, smiled, and then walked a step or two towards him. “I knew you would come,” she said with evident pleasure, and showing her little ball-book; “see, you were written for two dances, that I might be quite sure of being disengaged.” “Thank you,” said Hamilton; “you are very kind. I can remain but one hour, and as your sister seems to have forgotten her engagement with me, perhaps you will give me the second waltz also!” “Oh, I dare not; Major Stultz will never consent. I am sure I wish he would go home, he is so sleepy already. But,” she added after a pause, “I am quite sure that Hildegarde will dance with you.” In the course of the dance, Hildegarde and her partner came close beside them. Hamilton at first pretended not to observe it, but Crescenz naturally spoke to her sister. “Mr. Hamilton fancies you will not dance with him, but I am sure he is mistaken; he says he cannot remain more than an hour, so you must promise him the next waltz or galop, whichever it may be.” “If he really wish it,” said Hildegarde; “but he looks so very seriously English to-night, that if I were to propose dancing with him, I am sure he will say no!” “Try me,” said Hamilton; “or rather write my name in your book, that I may be sure you are in earnest.” “You must not trust to my memory, for I have neither ball-book nor tablets. I have no one,” she added, looking archly toward her sister, “I have no one to supply me with ball-books and bouquets,” and she bent her head over her sister’s hand, which could scarcely clasp the geraniums, heliotropes, and China roses with which it was filled. A moment after, she had joined the dancers, and Hamilton stood thoughtfully beside his partner.