“You really encourage Hildegarde to give way to her violence of temper, instead of pointing out to her the impropriety of her conduct, as I expected.” “What is past, is past,” he answered; “and Major Stultz is satisfied.” “Satisfied! I am the happiest man in the world!” exclaimed Major Stultz. Crescenz smiled and blushed. “Well, then, we are all happy. You take Crescenz, who is, if anything, too good and gentle, and I must for the present retain this passionate, good-for-nothing girl!” He played with her hand as he spoke, and the dullest looker-on must have observed that she was his favourite child. “You will very probably retain her all your life,” observed Madame Rosenberg. “I don’t think I shall. Somebody will be sure to find out that she is as good-hearted as she is passionate—ill-tempered she is not—the darling!” “Oh, she is very good-tempered when she has every thing her own way. And papa to spoil her! I don’t envy the man who may get her.” “I shall not pity him,” said her father, gently pressing her hand; and then turning to his wife and Major Stultz, seemed determined to change the conversation. Hamilton left them, and when he found himself alone in the garden, unconsciously began to consider—was or was not Hildegarde amiable? or was she merely a spoiled child, whose father, dazzled by her extreme beauty, thought her faultless? Her sister certainly loved her, and the children, although they preferred Crescenz, assuredly did not dislike her—in fact, her step-mother alone seemed to think her ill-tempered, and he felt strongly inclined to come to the conclusion that her father’s evident partiality had provoked the jealousy of that apparently little indulgent person. On the ensuing day, Zedwitz and Hamilton had agreed that they would not give the Rosenbergs so much of their society as usual, but, knowing that they could make up for lost time afterwards, leave them to discuss their family affairs during the sojourn of Mr. Rosenberg. They prepared, with a very good grace, to spend the morning with Zedwitz’s mother and sister in the garden, and to the infinite surprise of both ladies, they seated themselves at the table in the arbour which they were in the habit of occupying. Agnes, who continued working with unnecessary assiduity, submitted for some minutes to be tormented, in a boyish manner, by her brother. He wrote upon the table with the point of her scissors, entangled her coloured wool and silk, upset her needle case, and finally attempted to twitch her work out of her hand. “You overpower me with your attentions to-day, Max,” she at length observed, with heightened colour; “I am no longer used to them.” “You do not mean that you are annoyed at my playing with this trumpery?” he cried, moving from her with affected anxiety.