“But he must not go backwards and forwards,” began Madame Rosenberg.
“Oh, mamma!” exclaimed Hildegarde, who was standing in the passage; “will you not speak to papa about it? I am sure——”
“Go to your bed,” cried her mother, interrupting her testily, “and don’t stand shivering there until you get the cholera, too; go to your bed. I assure you,” she said, turning apologetically to Hamilton, “I assure you I don’t mean to be unkind, but I have a family, and it would be awful were the cholera to come among us. Suppose I were to lose Franz, or one of my boys, or even Hildegarde——”
“Do not speak of anything so dreadful,” cried Hamilton, instantly seizing the last idea. “Nothing will induce me to return until even the shadow of danger has past.”
“And you do not think me ill-natured?”
“Not in the least!”
Hildegarde was at the door of her room as he was about to pass—he stopped to take leave.
“Use whatever precaution you can against infection,” she said, warmly returning the pressure of his hand, “and,” she added, hurriedly, “and don’t be angry when I send you the watch you gave me last night. Papa agrees with me in thinking such a present too valuable to be accepted from a—an acquaintance. Don’t forget to let me know as often as you can by old Hans, how Count Zedwitz is!”
Hamilton dropped her hand with an impatient jerk, and hurried from the house, without speaking another word.