"Where in New England will you see such a picture as that?" asked Miss
Ruth, pointing to a village which lay in the heart of the valley, shut
in on the right by the jagged limestone rocks of the Brezon and on the
left by the grassy slopes of the Mole.

"Our rural towns lack color and architecture," said Lynde. "They are
mostly collections of square or oblong boxes, painted white. I wish we
had just one village composed exclusively of rosy-tiled houses, with
staircases wantonly running up on the outside, and hooded windows, and
airy balconies hanging out here and there where you don't expect them. I
would almost overlook the total lack of drainage which seems to go along
with these carved eaves and gables, touched in with their blues and
browns and yellows. This must be Bonnevine we are coming to. We change
horses here."

In a few minutes they swept through an avenue of noble trees, and
stopped at the doorstep of an inn alive with passengers by the diligence
just arrived from Sallanches, on its way to Geneva.

Lynde was beginning to feel a trifle out of spirits. The journey thus
far had been very pleasant, but it had not wholly fulfilled his
expectations. The Denhams had occupied themselves with the scenery; they
had not been much inclined to talk; and Lynde had; found no opportunity
to make himself especially agreeable. They had spoken several times of
Flemming, in a vein of eulogy. Lynde loved Flemming; but Flemming as a
topic of conversation possessed no particular advantage over landscape.
Miss Denham had never looked so lovely to Lynde as she did this day; he
was glad to get her again in that closely fitting drab travelling-dress,
laced up to the shapely white throat. A sense of great comfort had