On one of these occasions we made the ascent of Montanvert, and
visited the Mer de Glace. Montanvert rises abruptly from the vale of
Chamouni, and may not improperly be considered a portion of the base
of Mont Blanc. It is beautifully wooded to its summit, whence its name
of the Green Mountain.

As we were standing in the court of the inn discussing the merits of a
guide, and anxious to find a trusty and intelligent person from whom
we could learn all that was to be learned, as well as feel secure in
his choice of the best paths, a boy and girl came up the hill, and
speaking hurriedly to the landlord, advanced confidently to the place
where we stood. Lifting his cap, while a shower of light soft curls
fell over his coarse blouse, he asked if we were in search of a guide,
and if we would take him. His manner was so respectful, and his face
and appearance so youthful, we were attracted, and still did not know
how to reply to him.

"I was thinking of Franz," said the innkeeper; "you need not fear his
youth; he was born here, and his father has always been considered one
of the best guides in the country; Franz knows every path."

"Let his father come with him," I suggested. I thought I caught a
tear in the boy's eye, and his lips trembled.

"Father is old, and besides he is very ill to-day; if you will allow
me I will serve you faithfully."

There was something so frank and truthful, and his words were so well
chosen and showed such cultivation, that even had I feared that he was