returned.

"Annette was afraid it would not do; it is the best we have, and I
know you must be hungry."

White bread, and strawberries, and goat's milk; while the bottle of
sour wine I had seen in the morning graced the table. I had not
expected such a tempting meal, and I was hungry, as Franz said. Taking
his seat Franz raised his eyes to mine. There was no mistaking its
upward, grateful glance. Bowing our heads, we asked a blessing, and
then picking up the broken thread, Franz went on to tell me of
himself.


Franz's Story.

"It is nearly four years since an English gentleman and his daughter
visited Chamouni, and my father was their guide. Mr. Wyndham was a
gentleman of refined manners; a Christian man, loving God, and
speaking of that love with the earnestness of one who wishes others to
love Him also. His daughter Alice, a frail, gentle girl, was one of
those beings that seem lent, not given; the last of a large family,
and herself not strong. Her father brought her to Lausanne, hoping
that pure air and change of scene would restore and invigorate her. I
hardly know why, but certain it is that my father was never so much
interested in travellers before; while from the first it seemed to me
that I could never do enough for the gentle girl, who never failed to
inspire me with the love of something beyond what I knew. It was not a
tangible idea, and when I tried to reach it I could not. Often in
going up the mountain we would stop and rest on some shelf of the