“None, excepting my good wishes,” said Hildegarde, turning away. “Walburg, you may now go to the grocer’s—I can walk home alone. Good-morning, Mr. Hamilton.”
Hamilton bowed gravely, waited with due propriety until Walburg was quite out of sight, and then ran after Hildegarde, and endeavoured, while still panting for breath, to thank her for the amulet, and her kind anxiety on his account.
“My father more than shares my anxiety about you,” she said, calmly; “he was greatly distressed at hearing that mamma had in a manner banished you from our house. Should you get the cholera now, and not be properly taken care of, how could we write to your family? What could we say to them?”
“You mean in case of my death? By-the-by, I never thought of that. Do not walk so fast—I want to speak to you, and I know you must dismiss me at the next turn. Should I die of cholera——”
“It is time enough to talk of death when you are ill,” said Hildegarde, hastily.
“No, it will be too late then. Twenty-four hours are more than enough to finish a man’s life now. Will you undertake to write to my sister and arrange my effects?”
“Are you joking?”
“Not in the least. You will find in a rosewood case a number of papers—a journal in fact. These papers must be carefully sealed and addressed to my sister. There is also a miniature——”
“I know,” said Hildegarde.
“How do you know,” cried Hamilton, stooping forward to catch a glimpse of her features, “how do you know anything about that?”