“I thought you said you were at liberty to talk to me as much as you please,” observed Hamilton, ironically. “And so I am,” she replied, seating herself again, while she glanced furtively towards her future husband. “What have you got to say to me?” “Oh, a—what were you talking about? Major Stultz’s excellent advice, was it not? I should really like to hear all that he said to you, for I can hardly think he spent his whole time in railing at men who have the good fortune to be a score of years younger than he is.” “Oh, we spoke of other things also.” “It would have been very odd if you had not.” “We—spoke—of love!” “Very naturally. I really should like to know the opinion of such a man as Major Stultz on so important a subject.” “He said,” she began with a sigh, “he said that people, especially women, seldom had the good fortune to marry their first love.” “Rather a trite observation, and, on his part, unnecessary. Surely, if any man may hope to be the object of a first love, it is Major Stultz! You have only left school a few months—are not yet sixteen years old. What could he mean by talking to you about first love?” She was silent. “Perhaps it was as a preliminary to his confessions. Did he give you a history of his loves? Have they been very numerous?” “No,” she exclaimed, almost angrily; “he told me, on the contrary, that I was the first person he had ever wished to marry.” “Did you remind him of his proposal to your sister?” This contradiction to his words seemed to have entirely escaped her memory; she coloured violently, and the ready tears again prepared to flow. Hamilton felt that he was amusing himself unpardonably at the poor girl’s expense, teasing her beyond what she could bear, and was preparing to set all to rights again by playing a little sentiment, when she arose precipitately, and with such ill-concealed annoyance, to walk towards Major Stultz, that instead of picking up her large ball of thread, she drew it rashly after her, jerking it over the flower-beds, and entangling it so effectually in a rose-bush as she moved quickly on, that Hamilton ran to her assistance, and, as he restored it to her, said, in a low voice, in French,— “This evening I shall be in the cloisters _before_ sunset. Meet me there, I entreat you. I wish to ask your pardon, if I have offended you.” The shadows of evening had no sooner begun perceptibly to lengthen, than Hamilton repaired to the cloisters, and amused himself endeavouring to decipher the epitaphs on the various tombstones, until a light step close beside him made him look up, and he beheld, not Crescenz, but Hildegarde, standing before him. He was about to pass her with a slight inclination, when she stopped suddenly, and, while she slightly blushed, said firmly,— “I am the bearer of a message from my sister.” “The willing bearer of her excuses, no doubt.” “I understood it was you who were to have made excuses,” she answered, coldly.