crystals and moss-agates and horn-carvings which M. Couttet has for show
in the apartment that serves him as salon, cafe, and museum. Then the
two set out for the rocks overlooking the glacier.

The cliff rises precipitously two hundred and fifty feet above the
frozen sea, whose windings can be followed, for a distance of five
miles, to the walls of the Grandes and Petites Jorasses. Surveyed from
this height, the Mer de Glace presents the appearance of an immense
ploughed field covered by a fall of snow that has become dingy. The
peculiar corrugation of the surface is scarcely discernible, and one
sees nothing of the wonderful crevasses, those narrow and often
fathomless partings of the ice, to look into which is like looking into
a split sapphire. The first view from the cliff is disappointing, but
presently the marvel of it all assails and possesses one.

"I should like to go down on the ice," said Ruth, after regarding the
scene for several minutes in silence.

"We must defer that to another day," said Lynde. "The descent of the
moraine from this point is very arduous, and is seldom attempted by
ladies. Besides, if we do anything we ought to cross the glacier and go
home by the way of the Mauvais Pas. We will do that yet. Let us sit upon
this boulder and talk."

"What shall we talk about? I don't feel like talking."

"I'll talk to you. I don't know of what... I will tell you a story."

"A story, Mr. Lynde? I like stories as if I were only six years old. But
I don't like those stories which begin with 'Once there was a little