the spell was broken.




A Sabbath In Lausanne.


After a long journey we arrived at the head of the lake of Geneva, by
far the most interesting portion of this sheet of water. The mountains
on the left of the valley are extremely wild and majestic, and at
their feet, close on the borders of the lake, is the little village
where I had promised to spend the Sabbath with my old friend Wagner.
The sun had gone down, but a rosy flush tinged the clouds and lingered
about the tops of the mountains.

The walk was not long to the parsonage, a low rambling cottage, with
deep windows and overhanging roof, embowered in trees and fragrant
with the breath of flowers. All this we took in at a look, and without
any break in the talk, taking us back as it did to the day when we
bade good-by to the college and its professors, and shook hands with
each other for the last time. Looking into Wagner's face it did not
seem so long ago; while I, floating round the world, had gathered
experience enough to make me feel, if not look, something older. At
the porch we were met by Maude, her slight girlish figure rounded into
the perfection of womanhood, the rich bloom of her cheek not quite as
deep perhaps; but the sweet blue eyes met mine with all the old
frankness, the charming naivete that had rendered her so much a
favorite when a child.