My brother's friend

But though we had enjoyed the mild climate of Ventnor for so long, and I had endeavoured to preserve him from every risk of cold, Edmund had made little progress. His cough still troubled him, he passed restless nights, he panted painfully when we climbed the hills, and the hectic colour in his face bore witness that the insidious disease was still working mischief. Yet in spite of all, he was full of hope, and often spoke as if he were rapidly regaining strength, and I, too, clung to hope, refusing to read aright the signs which had so clear a meaning.

During the last few weeks, Edmund had grown weary of Ventnor, and was impatient to try another change. He was anxious, too, on account of our rapidly diminishing means, and wanted to get to work again, for he still hoped to take his degree, although he had missed the examination in preparing for which he had broken down.

"Dorothy," he said to me now, as we paced the sands, "don't you think we might go to town next week? I should like to see that doctor again, and ask him if I may not set to work. I really cannot afford to saunter away my days here any longer, and I believe I should be better if I could work."

"Perhaps, dear; but you must not be in too great a hurry," I ventured to say. "You have been patient so long; you must not spoil all by being rash now."

"But I am better, very much better," he urged. "It could not hurt me to begin work again."

"I should like to see you first with a little more flesh on your bones," I said, laying my hand on his thin arm; "and your appetite needs to improve, for you must eat more if you work."

"How can a fellow have a healthy appetite when he is allowed to do nothing?" demanded Edmund. "I should eat fast enough if I worked. We will go up to town next week, Dorothy."

"Wait till we hear what sort of weather they are having in town," I suggested. "Write to Ralph Dugdale, and ask his advice."

"He will be sure to say, 'Do not come yet.' He is as much inclined to coddle me as you are. Not that I would say a word against the dear old fellow, the best friend I ever had. I can never forget what a sacrifice he made for me."

Indeed, it seemed that Edmund never would forget how Ralph, in order to nurse him day and night, had sacrificed his chance of being senior wrangler. Refusing to leave him to the care of a hired nurse, he had watched beside his bed till the crisis of the illness had passed, by which time the examination was close at hand. Consequently, he had presented himself for it with both mind and body ill-prepared for the strain, and had come out, not first wrangler, as his college had fondly hoped, but seventh on the list.

Edmund could hardly forgive himself for having caused his friend's failure. He had counted on seeing Ralph senior wrangler, and his disappointment was far greater than Ralph's, who would not allow that there was any cause to regret his position on the University list.

Perhaps as a woman, with no pretensions to being learned, I could not rightly estimate the grandeur of the sacrifice Ralph had made, but, in truth, Edmund's gratitude for the same sometimes struck me as being excessive.

Edmund continued to talk about going to London. I listened without opposing the idea. But for the fear of his endangering his health, I should have liked the thought as well as he did.

I had not forgotten Leonard Glynne, though I had striven hard to do so, reproaching myself for giving another so many thoughts, when my brother so strongly claimed my loving consideration. I had quitted Weylea with a strangely mingled sense of pain and relief. I had fancied that I was breaking away from the enthralment which I had found at once so sweet and bitter, and for a time Edmund had absorbed my every thought and feeling. I believed that if only he were restored to health, I should desire nothing more. Yet whilst Edmund stood first, and I devoted myself entirely to him, the thought of Leonard was never far from me. Edmund's talk about going to London stirred within me a sudden longing to see Leonard again, or at least to know how he was.

Perhaps we should go to Beechwood, and if so, I could easily walk over to Weylea to see Mrs. Lyell. I had heard very little of Leonard since I left Weylea. Mrs. Lyell's letters contained only the most casual references to him, and now for many weeks, Mrs. Lyell had not written to me, so that I half feared she was ill. Perhaps it was not strange, but only in accordance with the usual order of coincidences, that after pondering the causes of Mrs. Lyell's silence, I should, on our return to our lodgings, find a letter from her awaiting me there.

I opened it eagerly. It was soon evident that Mrs. Lyell had not been ill. A succession of visitors, whom the spring had brought to town, had occupied her time, so that her correspondence had fallen into arrears. She begged me to believe that she had not ceased to feel a warm interest in my own and my brother's welfare.

Was there a word of Leonard in the letter? My eyes skimmed the pages in search for his name. Yes, here was something. What was this,—"For Leonard's sake"?

Unfortunately the paragraph was not calculated to give me pleasure.

   "I must tell you," wrote Mrs. Lyell, "that I have made Miss Carsdale's acquaintance. She called on me, and, for Leonard's sake, I felt obliged to see her. To my surprise, I found her a very agreeable girl, kind and gentle in her manners, and by no means so frivolous as I had supposed. I blame myself now for having misjudged her. Of course she has had a worldly training, and she dresses more gaily than I think becoming; but I am sure there is good in her. Since then, she has spent an evening with me, and she kindly says that she will often run in and read to me, so that I may not feel too much the loss of your precious services." And so on.

I could hardly read to the end of the letter, I was so annoyed. Of course, since Mrs. Lyell was thus taking to Miss Carsdale, there could be no doubt as to what would soon follow. Strange! I had believed myself without any personal hope for the future, yet this thought thrilled me with pain and anger and sorest mortification.

"What is the matter, Dorothy?" asked my brother, who had been watching me as I read the letter.

"Matter?" I exclaimed, startled by the question. "Oh, nothing. What do you mean? Why do you ask?"

"Only because I naturally wondered why one moment you were as red as a lobster and the next as white as that curtain."

"What nonsense, Edmund," I cried, colouring again. "I was nothing of the kind; I never do change colour like that."

"You mean you have never seen yourself do so," returned Edmund. "I do wonder what there is in that letter to put you out so."

"Then you may wonder," I said, forcing a laugh, "for I am not going to satisfy your curiosity."

I left my brother and went upstairs, there to fight a long battle with myself. I was determined to escape from the dominion of this pain. It was a hard struggle, but at last I succeeded, as I thought, in putting from me utterly thought of Leonard Glynne. Henceforth he should be nothing to me, and if possible, I would not see him again. I would live for my brother only, and whilst I had Edmund, what did it matter whether anyone else loved me?

I went back to him conscious of a new proud strength, and my heart glowed with joy when he said, as he thanked me for some trifling service, "What a precious old sister you are, Dottie! I could not do without you now."

Notwithstanding Edmund's impatience to quit Ventnor, we did not go to London till the end of the month. Mabel and her husband were in town for a few weeks, and by her arrangement, to which I reluctantly consented, we joined them at their rooms in Duke street. Mabel had not seen Edmund since his illness, and she was shocked at the alteration she perceived in him, and was inclined to blame me for it.

"You should not have let him get so thin, Dorothy," she said. "If I had been you, I should have given him all sorts of nourishing things."

"No doubt you would have managed better than I," was my reply; "but indeed I have tried to think of everything. It is impossible to get Edmund to take much, his appetite is so bad."

"You had better both come back to Burford with me," said Mabel; "I will nurse Edmund up and soon get him strong."

"I will consign Edmund to your care, if you wish," I replied, "but I cannot go to Burford."

"What nonsense, Dorothy! Of course I could not have him without you—it would be impossible with all the claims I have on my time. And you would see my Percy. Such a darling he has grown. I wish I had brought him with me, for there is a photographer in Regent street who takes children's likenesses splendidly. Now, don't look so obstinate. Why should you not come and stay with me? You ought to do so. People are beginning to wonder at your keeping away so. It really appears as if we had quarrelled."

"I cannot help that," I said. "I should be very sorry to quarrel with you, Mabel, but—"

"I shall be obliged to quarrel with you, if you are so obstinate," said Mabel, much offended.

As it happened, the question of our going to Burford was indirectly decided by the physician whom Edmund consulted. His words did not sound very hopeful as they were repeated to me. The disease was not yet checked; there was grave cause for anxiety. Edmund had been counselled to avoid a damp, low-lying neighbourhood, and, if possible, to spend several weeks amidst the mountains of Switzerland.

"Will you go?" I asked him when he told me what the physician had said.

He shook his head. "How can I, when our funds are getting so low? And yet I believe mountain air is just what I want."

"Oh, do take all the money, Edmund," I said; "your health is of more consequence than anything else. I will seek a situation at once, so you need not trouble about me."

"As if I should think of going to Switzerland without you," he replied. "It would be better to stay at home if I could not have you to comfort and cheer me." His words made me glad; but yet how I longed for the means of taking him to Switzerland.

"Edmund," I began, "if I said a word to Mabel, I have no doubt Mr. Steinthorpe would be glad to provide the money for your expenses in Switzerland."

"Thank you, Dorothy," he said, dryly, "but I would rather not go in that way. There would be no pleasure in going if I knew that I was travelling at his cost."

"But when it is for your health, and your future usefulness depends on it," I ventured to say.

"I see, you are less proud for me than for yourself," he returned, laughingly; "but no, Dorothy, I cannot think of it."

It was useless to say more, so the subject was allowed to drop.

Two days later, Mabel and I coming in from a shopping expedition found Ralph Dugdale in the hall, about to take his departure from the house. Mabel begged him to stay and take tea, but he declined. He had been having a long talk with Edmund, he said, and must now hurry away to catch a train for Beechwood. But ere he quitted the house, he drew me on one side, and said, hastily, in a voice too low to reach the others,—

"Miss Carmichael, I think you will agree with me that your brother ought to go to Switzerland, since the doctor so strongly advises it. I have been showing him how easily this could be managed, if only he would allow me to act as a friend, as a brother should. But he has some ridiculous scruples, which I trust to you to sweep away. You will take my side in the matter, will you not? You must feel that your brother's health is of the utmost importance."

"Yes, yes," I replied, not at all clear as to his meaning, but very glad to learn that there was any chance of my brother's going to Switzerland.

"Thank you, thank you; then I rely on your help. I shall come in again very soon to talk things over with you."

So saying, Mr. Dugdale pressed my hand with a grateful warmth the occasion hardly seemed to require, and departed.

As soon as I was alone with my brother, I asked him what Ralph Dugdale wanted him to do.

"Oh, I hardly like to tell you," said Edmund, in a tone that showed he was much moved; "but it is just like the dear, generous, unselfish old fellow. Of course, he used many words in making his proposition, till it seemed as if he were asking a favour rather than bestowing one, but to put it baldly, he wants me to go to Switzerland at his expense. As if I had not cost him enough already! But I cannot, I will not think of this."

I was silent, musing for awhile on this rather startling idea. I knew that the Dugdales were wealthy people. I had heard Edmund say that Ralph had a handsome income of his own. The sum Edmund needed doubtless was to him small, and he could lay it at his friend's disposal without inconvenience.

"Edmund," I said, presently, "I can fancy how you feel about it, but do you know I believe that you would be giving Ralph Dugdale the greatest pleasure if you accepted his kindness? He is very much attached to you; nothing would please him more than to see you well again."

"I know that," said Edmund, hoarsely, "but still I cannot altogether relish the idea of being under a pecuniary obligation to him."

"But still you would rather be under such an obligation to him than to Howard Steinthorpe?"

"Why, yes—that 'goes without saying,' as the French remark. Dugdale is my friend, and Steinthorpe, though my brother-in-law, is hardly a friend."

"Just so. Ralph is far more of a brother to you. I suppose that if I were a rich woman, you would not be too proud to receive a little pecuniary help from me in your present circumstances?"

"Well, perhaps not; but then you are my sister, you see."

"And does not such a friend as Ralph come closer than a brother? David and Jonathan were more than brothers. Jonathan was a rich young prince, whilst David had but lately been following the sheep, yet their great love for each other must have made them feel on an equality. Jonathan was ready to risk his father's displeasure and make any sacrifice for the sake of his friend. What would a money gift have been between them? Certainly not worth debating. There must be 'give and take' in all true friendship."

"Well done, Dorothy," cried Edmund, clapping his hands; "I had no idea you could draw such a parallel. Why, you are quite a preacher!"

"I wish I were," I said, laughing, "for then I might hope to convince you that we need grace, as Mrs. Lyell would say, to receive generously as well as to give generously."

"Why, that is just what Ralph has been saying! He has been trying to convince me that I should evince more generosity in accepting his offer than he does in making it. I believe he has primed you what to say."

"Thank you for the insinuation that I am not capable of thinking for myself," I said. "But now, Edmund dear, since both I and Mr. Dugdale see your duty so clearly, you will try to see it as we do, will you not?"

"I will think about it," said Edmund.

And I could get no more from him on the subject till Ralph Dugdale came again a few days later, when, through our combined persuasions, he consented to accept Ralph's kindness on condition that he might look upon the sum advanced as a loan, and repay it whenever he found himself in a position to do so.

"It is very horrid of you to suggest such a thing, Carmichael," said Ralph Dugdale, "but I suppose I must let you have your own way."

And then we began to discuss the merits of different mountain resorts, and the routes thither. Ralph strongly advised our sojourning at a certain pension, perched on a mountain side, at no great distance from Lauterbrunnen. The house commanded a magnificent prospect, and as it stood neatly five thousand feet above the sea-level, the air was peculiarly fine. In such an atmosphere, and surrounded by such scenery, it seemed to Ralph almost impossible that Edmund should not grow strong. My heart grew light with hope as I listened to his words. What a good, true friend he was! I felt as if I could never be grateful enough to him for all he was doing for my brother.

"I HAVE A GREAT MIND TO RUN OVER
TO THE CONTINENT WITH YOU."

"I tell you what, Carmichael," he said, presently, "I have a great mind to run over to the Continent with you, and see you comfortably settled in your mountain home."

My heart gave a bound of delight. If only he did this, the last shadow of anxiety would be lifted from my mind, for, unaccustomed to foreign travelling, I was fearful lest I should fail to take proper care of Edmund on the journey. I looked quickly at Ralph, and my eyes must have expressed the pleasure his words gave me, for he met my glance with a smile so full of meaning that I felt sure he understood me perfectly.

But Edmund at once began to protest against his friend's taking the trouble to accompany us.

"Dorothy and I are quite capable of taking care of each other," he said.

"You mean beggar!" ejaculated Dugdale. "Will you allow no one else to have the pleasure of seeing the mountains, or do you grudge me your sister's company? You know very well that my time is of little importance just now, since I am only reading in a desultory fashion, till I see more clearly what my future career should be."

So Edmund's mouth was stopped. When Ralph took his departure, I went dawn with him into the hall, for I wanted to thank him for his kindness to my brother. As we descended the stairs, he remembered a message from Grace—her love, and she hoped to come and see me in a day or two, since I had decided that it was impossible for me to go to Beechwood.

Ralph talked so briskly as he prepared to go that I could hardly say what I wished to him. He cut my thanks short by saying with one of his quick, keen glances, "Then you will not object to my company on the journey?"

"Oh, I shall be so glad of it! You will be the greatest comfort," I cried, eagerly.

Such a glad, bright look came into his eyes then. He had taken my hand, and he retained it in his for a few moments as he looked at me. Very pleasant was his face at that moment; I could not but be conscious of the pleasure that irradiated it.

I said to myself, "Here is a man whose greatest delight is in doing deeds of kindness."

When I returned to Edmund, he began warmly to extol his friend. Was there ever a more noble, generous-hearted fellow? There was not his equal in the world, either for goodness or cleverness, of that Edmund was certain. He would be in Parliament some day, and, if human merit ever met with its due reward, he would be made Prime Minister.

I could not help laughing a little at my brother's enthusiasm for his friend. This vexed Edmund. He was quickly irritated in these days.

"Of course you cannot appreciate him," he said, angrily; "I might have known that."

"Indeed, I do appreciate him," I said, rather warmly. "I have the highest esteem for Ralph Dugdale, and I am very glad for your sake that he talks of going with us to Switzerland."

"But you are not glad for your own sake," said Edmund. "You are like most women—you cannot appreciate true manly worth; you would prefer a curled and scented darling with no brains to speak of."

"Why, how you talk, Ted!" I exclaimed, laughing. "Pray, when have I shown any liking for curled and scented darlings? Happily, I have seldom met with such, and I cannot believe that they are as a rule popular with my sex. Take my word for it, there is no quality women more admire in men than true manliness. Do you suppose that the Arthur West, whom Grace mourns so faithfully, was a 'curled and scented darling?'"

What was there in my words to make Edmund start and look so annoyed?

"Certainly not," he said, constrainedly. "Mrs. West is utterly different from every other woman I have met with."

"Of course she is much better than most women," I replied. "She is coming to see me in a day or two, Ralph says."

Again a curious change passed over Edmund's face.

"Do you not like Grace?" I asked, rather anxiously. "You know you need not see her when she comes, if you would rather not."

"What extraordinary things you say, Dorothy!" exclaimed Edmund, frowning. "Could anyone know Mrs. West and not like her?"

I said no more, but, wondering at Edmund's odd humours, went off to find Mabel, and tell her of the plans we had made.

====================

CHAPTER XIV.

"WHERE NATURE'S HEART BEATS STRONG AMID THE HILLS."

"RALPH, old fellow, this is fine indeed; this surpasses all in my expectations."

"Does it? That is well. I was afraid that my enthusiasm for this part of Switzerland might have led me to paint it to you in too glowing colours, and you might find the reality disappointing."

"Disappointing! Man alive, who could be disappointed with such a scene as this? Oh the delicious air! Is it not joy, Dotty, to be here? But you are hot and tired. I forget that you are not so free to enjoy it as I am."

"I enjoy it quite as much," I declared, as I threw myself panting on the soft, thymy turf by the wayside, where Edmund's bearers had deposited the "chaise à porteur" in which he was being carried up the mountain.

For more than an hour we had been climbing from Lauterbrunnen—a new experience to me, whose walking powers had hitherto been tested mainly on the level. But though the unusual strain was trying, I was very happy as I toiled along, learning from Ralph how to use my alpenstock to the best advantage. What delight can equal the rapture that comes with one's first vision of Swiss mountain scenery? Even the sad circumstances, the anxiety for my brother's health, which attended our coming to Switzerland, could not shadow my perfect gladness at this hour.

After ascending for a while through the delightful shade of pine woods, the path had led us on to a high, green plateau, overhanging the deep, narrow valley of Lauterbrunnen. It was well that the sturdy Swiss peasants, who carried Edmund as if he were no great burden, had here decided to make a halt, for a lovelier spot in which to rest can hardly be imagined.

To the left, on the other side of the deep gorge that marked the height of our ascent, we could see to perfection what Ruskin says is "the best image the world can give of Paradise, the slope of the meadows, orchards, and cornfields on the sides of a great Alp, with its purple rocks and eternal snows above."

The green slopes were dotted with brown châlets. Here and there, men and women were at work cutting the grass, and I saw a woman and a boy at work on a narrow, unguarded ledge overhanging a sheer precipice. It made me giddy to watch them, and I wondered how they could work in such a position; but doubtless familiarity had robbed them of all sense of peril. Behind us in the distance were huge mountain masses, with curiously sculptured summits rising sharp against the pale blue sky; beyond the undulating plateau was a ridge crowned with pine trees.

But the chief glory of the scene lay before, for there stood forth magnificent three giant peaks—the Jungfrau, with her bridal veil of snow, the Eiger, and the Mönch. Who can describe the beauty of that mountain chain? Not I, nor will I attempt it. Long we watched the changes every minute wrought on those glorious summits, now shining forth resplendent in sunlight, every buttress and ledge visible, and anon enveloped in billowy clouds.

"Well," said Edmund, at last, drawing a deep breath of satisfaction, "it is worth anything to see such a sight as this. If every hour of my life up to the present moment had been pain and misery, I think I should still rejoice that I had lived to enjoy the beauty of these mountains."

"Yes," I said, "such a day as this might well make amends for a thousand dark and sad days."

"My days are rather more numerous than that, Dottie, young as I appear," said Edmund, with one of his comical looks; "but I don't think I've had a thousand dark ones. I have little to complain of; my life has been an easy one, as human lives go. Anyhow, I'm glad I have lived. How can anyone pretend that it is a misfortune to be born, when we are born into such a world?"

"The sun, the moon, the stars, the
   seas, the hills, and the plains!
 Are not these, O soul, the vision of
   Him who reigns?"

repeated Ralph Dugdale, in a low voice.

"Thank you, old fellow," said Edmund; "that was what I was wanting, though I could not myself have thought of anything so appropriate. That glorious dome of snow had already spoken to me of 'the great white throne,' and 'Him that sat thereon.' But here come the guides; do they want to be moving on?"

I turned to address the men, forgetting, as I had already forgotten more than once in the course of our journeying that my mother tongue was not understanded by the natives of this land.

"There is Dottie again anticipating the time when the sons of men shall speak one universal language," remarked Edmund; "clearly, she is of opinion that that language will be the English."

I laughed at my own absurdity. Ralph, who spoke German fluently, came to my assistance. "They say we must be moving on if we would reach our destination before the sun sets," he said. "Come, Edmund, I doubt not that 'in this moment there is life and food for future years,' as Wordsworth has it, but yet I think you will soon be glad of a less ethereal repast."

"You are horridly prosaic," returned Edmund; "but I will confess that this mountain air is beginning to awake in me the keen demands of appetite, and also that I fancy it is getting a wee bit chilly."

I hastened to wrap a plaid about him. The bearers picked up the chair, and marched on at a steady, quick pace. Ralph and I followed closely, and the two men, with our baggage strapped to their backs, brought up the rear.

As we proceeded thus, I was startled by hearing a noise as of thunder coming from the mountain before us. One deep, loud, cannon-like report, and then the sound seemed to roll from peak to peak, resounding in echo after echo.

"An avalanche!" cried Ralph, pointing in the direction whence the sound seemed to proceed.

"An avalanche!" I repeated, searching with my eyes the snowy mountain mass before me. "Oh, where? Do show me! I would give anything to see an avalanche."

"There, don't you see!" he cried, pointing with his alpenstock. "There it comes, pouring over that rock."

But so large was the surface to be scanned, and I expected something so much grander than appeared, that for some moments Ralph failed to make me see it. At last, I perceived what seemed like a column of smoke stealing down a precipitous slope, and then falling as a cataract from rock to rock.

"Is that an avalanche?" I cried, much disappointed. "Why it is nothing to see! And it is impossible that so slight a fall could make such a fearful noise."

"Poor Dottie!" laughed Edmund. "She speaks as if the illusion of a lifetime were gone."

"What you call a slight fall," said Ralph, "is in reality a huge mass composed of many tons of snow; it is the great distance which makes it appear so small. But don't be disappointed, Miss Carmichael, you will have many opportunities of seeing avalanches whilst you are amongst the mountains, and will no doubt get a nearer and grander view than you have had to-day."

"Dottie will not be satisfied unless she is well-nigh smothered by one," said Edmund. "I know she is longing to figure as a heroine in some perilous exploit. I hope you are prepared, Ralph, to take her up all the mountains in the neighbourhood."

"I shall be most happy," he replied. "We will begin with the Schilthorn; I shall be able to point it out to you in a few minutes, I think."

Whilst we talked thus, we were making rapid progress, for the way was now easy. We were treading a broad, terrace-like road skirting the Lauterbrunnen valley, into the depths of which we could peer. Across the valley rose a chain of snow-crested mountains, visible from base to summit. Superb amongst them could still be traced the Jungfrau and her attendants.

Another mile of such walking, and we reached the mountain hamlet at which we were to sojourn. It was a quaint little collection of châlets.

At the doors of many of them women were seated engaged in making a coarse kind of lace, some of which they entreated us to buy. There were châlets which had been converted into little shops chiefly stocked with specimens of Swiss carving, very pretty and tempting. One of these shops was the "bureau de poste."

Our arrival created quite a stir in the little place. Children came running from all quarters and thronged after us, some offering us little bunches of edelweiss, and others beseeching us to buy the first ripe strawberries they had found in the woods. Thus attended, we arrived at the hotel-pension Ralph had recommended, a large, wooden, deep-gabled house, with carved balconies, after the pretty Swiss fashion.

It was early in the season, so we had little difficulty in getting rooms to suit us. I was delighted with mine, though it was very small, for its windows opened on to a little balcony, commanding an exquisite view of the Jungfrau range. As the balcony was also accessible from Edmund's window, he would be able to share it with me. It was furnished with a tiny table and chairs, and I thought we should spend many a happy hour there with books or work, enjoying the lovely prospect, as, indeed, we did.

The interior of this mountain hotel was very quaint and homely. Walls, ceiling, furniture, everything was of pine wood. The bedrooms were small wooden compartments, not unlike the cabins of a ship; but snowy curtains and spotless coverlids gave them an attractive appearance. The "salle à manger" and the "salon" were equally plain, no carpets or luxuries of any kind, and no ornaments save some very droll prints framed and hanging on the walls, and glass vases on the tables filled with lovely mountain flowers. But what of that? We had the best possible luxuries, as Edmund remarked—pure ozone and magnificent views of snow-fields and glaciers.

How we all enjoyed the evening meal to which we presently sat down! It did my heart good to see Edmund evincing a genuine appetite once more. He was very tired, and soon after supper retired to rest. But Ralph and I sat for more than an hour upon the balcony outside the "salon," watching the sunset glow fade from the mountains till they lay cold and colourless, robed in the mysterious beauty of the night.

On the following day, Edmund was still suffering too much from the effects of the journey to attempt any walking, but we had beauty enough around us to enjoy, without going to seek it. Ralph surprised us by producing from his luggage a hammock, which he slung in a charming nook in the pine wood at the back of the house. Nothing could have suited Edmund better. Here he lay for hours drinking in the exquisite mountain air and enjoying the indescribable, changeful beauty of the snowy range which rose before his view on the other side of the Lauterbrunnen gorge.

"No one but you would have thought of such a thing, Dugdale," he said, referring to the hammock.

He might well say so. I have never known any man so thoughtful and kind in little things as Ralph Dugdale showed himself at this time. There was something almost womanly in the tenderness with which he waited on my brother and anticipated his wants. I might have been jealous of his devotion, but that he never suffered me for a moment to feel that I was not needed. He made no suggestion without either a mute or spoken appeal to me for my sanction, and many a confidential talk did we have with regard to our loved patient.

Ralph fell into the way of saying "Shall we do this?" or "Would it be well for us to do that?" as though we were one in our solicitude for Edmund.

I thought nothing of it till Edmund, one day, laughingly remarked, in response to some proposal of Ralph's prefaced with the words, "We have been thinking—"

"We! It is always we now. You and Dorothy seem to have joined hands, and made a solemn compact to deprive me of all freedom of action. It used to be Dottie and I who were we, but you have won her from her allegiance to me."

"What nonsense, Edmund!" I returned. "I am most submissive to you. We always let you have your own way; we only counsel and advise."

"We again," observed Edmund, mischievously.

I glanced laughingly at Ralph, but he looked away as though he could not meet my eyes, and to my surprise, I saw that he had flushed a deep crimson. What could it mean? A sudden thought made me turn first hot then cold. But no, it was impossible, it could not be that. Ralph and I were drawn together by our common love to Edmund, that was all; the idea of anything more was absurd. And whilst I thus reasoned with myself, Ralph began talking lightly to Edmund again, and the unwelcome idea passed from my mind.

It was pleasant to see the perfect friendship that existed between these two. Edmund seemed to lie under no weight of obligation. He accepted every kindness from Ralph as simply as it was given, knowing that it was his friend's delight to serve him. He uttered no effusive thanks; but his silent gratitude was the deeper and stronger that it found no expression. And words were unneeded, for Ralph understood what was his friend's heart towards him.

Once Edmund said to me, "Ralph has the joy of giving now; but if ever you or I have it in our power to contribute to his happiness, how gladly we shall do so!"

"Yes, indeed," I said; "but, Edmund, I think you do contribute as it is to Ralph Dugdale's happiness. You are very dear to him."

Edmund cast at me a quick, curious glance. He seemed about to say something, but checked himself and fell into a reverie, which must have been pleasant, judging by the smile that played upon his face.

For a fortnight Ralph remained with us ere engagements called him back to England. We had beautiful weather during that time, and made the most of every sunny hour. But by common consent, Ralph and I postponed the mountain expedition we had talked of, and took only walks in which Edmund could accompany us, either on foot or carried in a "chaise à porteur." He talked of trying to ride one of the strong mountain horses that were to be hired, but for the present, we persuaded him to be content with the humbler mode of conveyance, as being less fatiguing. He was still very weak, though he showed signs of improvement which I eagerly noticed.

Ralph left us on a Monday. The Sunday preceding it is a day I can never forget. Edmund was well enough to go to the afternoon service in the English church, a little wooden building standing on a slight eminence beyond the village. The interior was simple almost to roughness; but as we sat on the plain deal benches, we could see through the side-windows the magnificent ranges of mountains that encircled us. The service was such as suited our surroundings. We sang:—

"For the beauty of the earth
 For the beauty of the skies,"
 
 
                 and
 
 
"Our God, we thank Thee, who hast
     made
 The earth so bright—"

And never, I think, were hymns sung more feelingly, for life seemed so fair, and God's love so near and precious, amidst the glorious beauty of that Alpine retreat. The sermon, too, simple but forcible, was such as made one think.

The preacher was an English clergyman, sojourning amidst the mountains for the benefit of his health. He was an old man with silvered hair and a serene, sweet expression, accompanied by tokens of rare intellectual power. His subject was the parable of the Pounds. I can little of what he said, but the impression produced by his earnest pleading that we should consider our life as a sum of money entrusted to us by God, not to be squandered upon self, but to be used for His glory and the good of others, a trust of which we must one day give an account before the bar of Eternal Justice, has remained with me.

"That was the right sort of sermon," said Ralph Dugdale, as we passed out of church into the bright sunlight, and took our way down the winding mountain path. "If preachers would only believe it, they might do infinitely more good by showing the solemnity of life and the irreparable loss incurred by its misuse, than by continually harping upon its uncertain duration and the certainty of death. Whether our lives be long or short, as men count age, it is certain that they will be but too brief for the work we have to do in them."

"True, indeed," said Edmund; "I can tell you that nothing makes one more conscious of the shortness and preciousness of life than to be brought face to face with the possibility that the end is drawing near. You cannot think how short my life seems to me now as I look back upon it. If I could have the time over again, I would use it to better advantage, God helping me."

"Oh, Edmund, don't talk so," I cried, with a thrill of fear; "you speak as if you were old and—there must be many years before you yet, plenty of time to work in."

"There may be more years, Dottie," he said, in tones that pierced my heart; "God only knows; I dare not count on much time."

"It is only the present that any of us can call our own," observed Ralph; "we must work while it is called to-day, making the most of every golden opportunity, since we know not how soon the night may fall."

"Ay," said Edmund, "if one would not be found at the last like the servant who laid up his pound in a napkin. Can there be sorer regret than one would feel who had to look back at the end upon a life all wasted, with its glorious opportunities passed beyond recall?"

I was miserable as Edmund spoke thus. I believed that he was daily growing stronger, and it shocked and grieved me to hear him speak as though his early death were more than a mere possibility, for till lately he had seemed so hopeful of regaining strength. But it was not this only which made me uneasy. Already a feeling of dissatisfaction with self had been stirred within me. I could not be daily in the company of Edmund and his friend without feeling how much higher and nobler were their aims in life than my own. How foolish and trivial were the impulses that moved me, how narrow and selfish my life! A few persons I loved with a passionate, exacting intensity; but of the love of humanity of which they often spoke, I knew nothing; I had no conception of living to do the will of God and to bless others. I was always making mistakes and suffering keen remorse; but experience did not make me any wiser, and I supposed I should go blundering on to the end.

"What are you thinking of, Dottie?" asked Edmund, turning upon me a gentle, inquiring glance.

"I hardly know," I began, in some confusion, "but it seems to me rather hard that life should be so short; we have hardly time to learn how to live ere our life over—at least, I am sure it will be so with me at the rate I am going on."

They laughed a little at my desperate view of my own case.

"We do blunder sadly," Ralph said, "but it always comforts me to remember, as Mrs. Browning says, that 'God's greatness flows around our incompleteness, round our restlessness His rest.' And there is rest and strength and victory for us through the One Perfect Life."

No more was said of so grave a nature. Edmund sat down to rest on a bench by the wayside. I wandered to the edge of the path and began gathering some of the dainty blue harebells which grew there, and had a home-like attraction for me, since such flowers flourished in the neighbourhood of Burford. Ralph joined me, and proposed to take me a few yards down the mountain slope to a point of view commanding an exceptionally lovely prospect. I acceded willingly, and we followed a sharp and narrow zig-zag, not more than a foot in width, which led us round the head of a deep gorge. Suddenly, at a sharp angle, where the path broke off and the green slope shelved steeply down, Ralph checked me.

"Now look," he said, and turning in the direction he indicated, I saw what appeared to my unaccustomed eyes like a vision of fairyland.

Below, one mountain shoulder meeting another, lay slope after slope of emerald green, here fringed by pine trees, and there dotted with châlets, or with cattle peacefully browsing. Whilst far, far beneath appeared the rocky defile of Lauterbrunnen, forked by another, greener valley, through which a mountain torrent took its way.

To the right, its mouth opening not two feet from where we stood, was the deep, gloomy gorge resounding with the roar of a cataract. Ralph led me so near that I could look down into its awful depths, from which rose the dark pinnacles of pines. It looked to me bottomless, and I shrank back shuddering and involuntarily clung to Ralph. He grasped my hand tightly with a reassuring smile; then leaning forward, he threw a stone straight down into the abyss. We listened and heard it strike point after point far below us ere its motion ceased.

"What an awful place!" I said, thankful to turn away, for to me there is a horrible fascination in such weird grandeur, and my admiration of its beauty is ever mingled with dread. "I am glad to have seen it, but I hardly dare come here alone."

"I would rather you did not," he said, still holding my hand as we retraced our steps. "In truth, it was partly that you might not be tempted to come here alone when I am gone that I brought you here to-day. A slip on this narrow, unguarded path would be perilous indeed."

"Thank you for your care of me," I replied. "Then you really mean to leave us to-morrow?"

"I must," he said, reluctantly.

"I am very sorry," I said, frankly; "we shall miss you dreadfully."

"I must return now," he said, slowly; "but I am thinking that perhaps, in the autumn, if you were still here, I might join you again for a little time. My people talk of coming to Switzerland in September."

"Oh, that would be delightful!" I exclaimed; "do come if you possibly can."

"I will," he said, earnestly, "since you wish it."

Something in his manner as he said this startled me and made me feel that I was speaking heedlessly. His voice, his look, his whole demeanour at that moment strangely reminded me of Leonard Glynne—as he had been in those days which I was trying to forget, but had not yet forgotten. I grew hot and tremulous as I observed this resemblance. I wanted to say something to correct any false impression my previous words might have made. I wished to explain that for Edmund's sake, I should be glad if his friend could join us. But this was not easy, and whilst I hesitated for words, we gained the top of the zig-zag, and at its junction with the main path found Edmund awaiting us.

CHAPTER XV.

REVELATIONS.