rock, while Alice would take her Bible from her pocket, and read the
beautiful descriptions of the majesty and glory of the mountain
heights, their grandeur and splendor, and then of the great God,
creator and ruler of the universe, and kneeling in the cleft of the
rock, she would commit herself to him with such a sweet, childlike
confidence, I used to weep without knowing what I was weeping for,
wishing and longing that I could understand for myself. Whenever she
read, and especially when she prayed, my father would listen
attentively, taking care when we went home to say nothing about it.

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"I remember one day we had been to 'Le Jardin,' a little spot of green
at the foot of the grand Jarasse, framed in with eternal snows, but
itself covered with Alpine plants and flowers, and yielding herbage
sufficient to tempt the herdsmen to drive their cattle across the Mer
de Glace. Her father and mine had gone a little out of the path,
leaving me in charge and Alice to rest. Seeing some bright flowers of
a peculiar species I stopped to gather them, and when I returned Alice
was reading. It was not of Christ's power, glory and majesty, but of
his love, the tenderness he felt for us, of his life, and last of all,
of his death. I had never heard the story before, and it took entire
possession of my spirit. Going down the mountain I was continually
asking myself, 'What shall I render to him for all he has suffered on
my account? and what for the blessings he has given me?' Thinking of
his buffetings, scoffs and scourging, I could hardly keep the tears.
My father observing this, and supposing that I was weary or had hurt
myself, was kinder than usual; but when I told him of the little book
and what Alice had told me of the love of Jesus, he grew angry and
said that the next time they needed a guide I should stay at home. 'I