him,
red-hooded, flowers in her hands, sunshine in her eyes. The clouds
parted, the deep shadow covering the Vallee du Diable cleared away,
and the dismal solitude began to smile. Count Abel arose, picked up his
staff, and shook himself. As he passed before the cavern, he discovered,
among the tufts of aconite which covered it, a mossy hollow, and
he perceived that this hollow was ornamented with beautiful blue
campanulas, whose little bells gracefully waved in the gentle breeze
which was stirring. He gathered one of these campanulas, carried it
to his lips, and found its taste most agreeable. Half an hour later
he turned from the highway into a foot-path which led through green
pastures and forests of larch-trees.

By the time he had reached the heart of the valley it was nightfall. He
traversed the hamlet of Cresta, crossed a bridge, found himself at the
entrance of the village of Cellarina, about twenty-five minutes' walk
form Saint Moritz. After taking counsel with himself, he resolved to
proceed no farther; and so he put up at a neat, pretty inn, which had
just been freshly white-washed.

The air of the Engadine is so keen and bracing that the first nights
passed there are apt to be sleepless ones. Count Larinski scarcely slept
at all in his new quarters. Would he have slept better on the plains?
He became worn out with his thoughts. Of what was he thinking? Of the
cathedral at Chur, of the Vallee du Diable, of the tufts of aconite, the
campanulas, and the meeting of the two post-chaises, one ascending, the
other descending. After that he saw no longer anything but a red hood,
and his eyes were open when the first blush of the morning penetrated
his modest chamber. Eagles sleep little when they are preparing for the
chase.

CHAPTER II

The Baths of Saint Moritz are, according to the verdict of a large
number of people, by no means an enlivening resort, and here tarry
chiefly genuine invalids, who cherish a sincere desire to recover health
and strength. The invigorating atmosphere, the chalybeate waters, which
are unquestionably wholesome, although they do taste like ink, have
wrought more than one actual miracle; nevertheless, it is said to
require no little philosophy to tolerate existence there. "I am charmed
to have had the experience of visiting the Baths," we once heard an
invalid say, "for I know now that I am capable of enduring anything
and everything." But this, let us hasten to assure the reader,