must be good with me. I never can be good alone and neither can
you, and you know it. We will give up the lovely drive in the
diligence; the luncheon at the French restaurant and those heavenly
little Swiss cakes" (here Salemina was almost unmanned); "the
concert on the great organ and all the other frivolous things we
had intended; and we will make an educational pilgrimage to
Yverdon. You may not remember, my dear,"--this was said severely
because I saw that she meditated rebellion and was going to refuse
any programme which didn't include the Swiss cakes,--"you may not
remember that Jean Henri Pestalozzi lived and taught in Yverdon.
Your soul is so steeped in illusions; so submerged in the Lethean
waters of the past; so emasculated by thrilling legends, paltry
titles, and ruined castles, that you forget that Pestalozzi was the
father of popular education and the sometime teacher of Froebel,
our patron saint. When you return to your adored Boston, your
faithful constituents in that and other suburbs of Salem,
Massachusetts, will not ask you if you have seen the Castle of
Chillon and the terrace of Corinne, but whether you went to
Yverdon."

Salemina gave one last fond look at the lake and picked up her
Baedeker. She searched languidly in the Y's and presently read in
a monotonous, guide-book voice. "Um--um--um--yes, here it is,
'Yverdon is sixty-one miles from Geneva, three hours forty minutes,
on the way to Neuchatel and Bale.' (Neuchatel is the cheese place;
I'd rather go there and we could take a bag of those Swiss cakes.)
'It is on the southern bank of Lake Neuchatel at the influx of the
Orbe or Thiele. It occupies the site of the Roman town of
Ebrodunum. The castle dates from the twelfth century and was
occupied by Pestalozzi as a college.'"