These hotels in the Upper Engadine
are frightfully dear!"

The handsome young Polish nobleman opened his purse and looked at the
contents rather sadly. It was almost empty. He would certainly have to
sell some of his family jewels, if he wanted to stay at Saint Moritz.
Unhappily, he now had only the fine diamond ring, which he wore on his
finger, and a Persian bracelet composed of three golden plates connected
by a band of filigree work.

"Now, which shall I sell," said the Count; "the Larinski ring, or the
bracelet which belonged to Samuel Brohl? The ring, I think. It will
bring in much more money, and besides, the bracelet might be useful as a
present."

After strolling some time about the garden, Mlle. Moriaz saw her father
waiting for her at the door.

"What do you think, Antoinette, of an excursion to Silvaplana Lake?"
said M. Moriaz. "I'm feeling so much better already, and I absolutely
long, my dear, for a good walk."

"I should be delighted," said his daughter, "if you think it will not
tire you."

M. Moriaz was sure an excursion would not tire him. So they set out for
a long walk, through the wild mountain scenery. Antoinette was delighted
to find that her father was recovering his strength, but he was
alarmingly quiet and thoughtful. Was she in for one of those serious
lectures on the subject of marriage which he used to read to her at
Paris? Yes! Camille must have written to him. For as she was standing on
a mountain bridge, listening to the liquid gurgling of the torrent at
the bottom of the gorge, she said to him:

"Isn't the music of this wild stream delightful?"

"Yes!" he replied. "But I think this bridge that spans the gorge is a
more wonderful thing than all the wild works of nature around us. I
admire men, like our friend Camille Langis, who know how to build these
bridges. What a fine fellow he is! Most men, with his wealth, lead idle,
useless lives. But there he is now, building bridges across mountains
just as wild as these, in Hungary. Why don't you marry him, my dear? He
is madly in love with you, and you have known him all your life."

"That's just it," said his daughter, with a movement of impatience, "I
have known him all my life. How can I now fall wildly and suddenly in
love with him? No! If ever I lose my heart, I am sure it will be to some
stranger, to someone quite different from all the men we meet in Paris."

"You are incorrigibly romantic, Antoinette," said her father, wit