e has just been paid over the counter."

"It is very hard on you indeed," said the other, scornfully.

"Nothing less than your sympathy would make it endurable;" and as he
spoke he lighted a bedroom candle and moved towards the door. "Don't
tell them at F. O. that you are going out unwillingly, or they'll
keep you there. Trust to some irregularity when you are there, to get
recalled, and be injured. If a man can only be injured and brought
before the House, it's worth ten years' active service to him. The first
time I was injured I was made secretary of embassy. The second gave
me my K. C. B., and I look to my next misfortune for the Grand Cross.
Good-bye. Don't take the yellow fever, don't marry a squaw."

And with a graceful move of the hand he motioned an adieu, and
disappeared.

CHAPTER XXX. ON THE ROAD

L'Estrange and his sister were on their way to Italy. The curate had
been appointed to the church at Albano, and he was proceeding to his
destination with as much happiness as is permitted to a man who, with a
very humble opinion of himself, feels called on to assume a position of
some importance.

Wishing, partly from motives of enjoyment, partly from economy, to avoid
the route most frequented by travellers, they had taken the road through
Zurich and the valley of the Upper Rhine, and had now reached the little
village of Dornbirn in the Vorarlberg--a spot of singular beauty, in
the midst of a completely pastoral country. High mountains, snow-capped
above, pine-clad lower down, descended by grassy slopes into rich
pasture-lands, traversed by innumerable streams, and dotted over with
those cottages of framed wood, which, with their ornamented gables and
quaint galleries, are the most picturesque peasant houses in existence.
Beautiful cattle covered the hills, their tinkling bells ringing out
in the clear air, and blending their tones with the ceaseless flow of
falling water, imparting just that amount of sound that relieved the
solemn character of the scene, and gave it vitality.

Day after day found our two travellers still lingering here. There was a
charm in the spot, which each felt, without confessing it to the other,
and it was already the fourth evening of their sojourn as they were
sitting by the side of a little rivulet, watching the dipping flies
along the stream, that Julia said suddenly,--

"You'd like to live your life here, George; isn't that so?"

"What makes you think so, Julia?" sai