We made the climb slowly, and noon was long passed when we reached
the saw-mills, the first houses in the mountain parish of St. Wolfgang
or Rein. The busy, purring mills stood on the edge of the Sarine at
the extremity of a flat mountain-valley intersected by innumerable
brooks, which, continually overflowing, turn it constantly into a
lake. The grass had been under water a week previously, but was now
sufficiently dry for us to sit and rest. Whilst we were so doing,
Ignaz, our _träger_, stood before us, his empty basket on his back.

"The barn is swept and garnished in readiness for the Herrschaft, and
their bundles and parcels are arranged there in beautiful order--many
bundles, and far heavier than they looked last night." Ignaz, however,
was of opinion that though the pay was small the gentry meant well
by him, and therefore he had not scrupled to take the food the worthy
farmer's wife had offered him, leaving the Christian soul to be repaid
by the gentlefolks when they came. And, moreover, he had advised the
landlord at Rein that the gentry were passing through, so that they
should not fail to find eatables ready, seeing hunger and weariness
were best consoled by food.

After which communication we regarded Ignaz as much less a clown than
he looked. Pushing forward, we soon saw the little inn shining forth
a mile farther up the valley--a small white chalet, with the
pink-checked feather beds hanging to air in the upper gallery.

Moidel looked grave over the dinner which the interposition of Ignaz
had prepared for us. "The place is called Rein (clean)," she said,
"but it is none of the cleanest. A Graf once reached Rein, and he
thought it so pastoral that he asked at the inn for a drink of new