re, he returned, his countenance
sad, but still peaceful. Vesta was sicker than he had dreamed of; it
was feared that she would not recover.

"Do you think it will not hurt her, for me to see her?" I asked.

"Oh, no, she said that she would like to see you."

During our short walk few words were said. As we reached the cottage a
young man came out to meet us, with a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed child
in his arms, and another clinging to his hand. It was Vesta's husband,
and these were her children. Following them into the cottage, I found
myself at once in the presence of the dying woman. The sight of a
strange face did not disturb her. With a look that seemed to
comprehend the Christian bond of union between us she held out her
hand.

"I have come with Erwald," I said, "to see his sister. I am sorry to
find you so very ill."

"Almost home," she gasped.

"You do not feel that you are alone; there is One to walk with you?"

"Jesus, my Redeemer, my Comforter."

Erwald was kneeling by the bed, his eyes were full of tears, and his
hand trembled as he clasped the pale thin fingers.

"You will get well, Vesta, you will come to the old home once again,
mother expects you, and father." The words were gone. Sobs echoed
through the cottage.

"Tell mother, not an hour but I have thought of her. Tell her that I
am glad she loves Jesus; and father, ask him for my sake to read the
little Bible that I sent him. I would so like to see them, Erwald;
but it cannot be. For this, as well as for my husband and children, I
would live; but I go to Jesus. Live so as to meet me there."

There was no excitement, only a weary look stole over the face.
Leaving Erwald, I walked back to the inn. Though far away from home,
and surrounded by strange scenery and strange people, it was
delightful to find the same faith here as in my own home, the same
heaven inspired confidence in the Redeemer.

The next morning the sick woman was more comfortable. Erwald did not
say it, but I knew that he wanted to stay with her.

"Go with us to Le Prieure," I said to him, "and then you shall return.
In the valley of Chamouni I feel sure we can procure a guide."

As we left Maglan, our road, or rather path, led up a deep and fertile
valley, watered by the Arve, rich in woods of fir, and bounded by
mountains of various forms and of tremendous altitudes; their rugged
peaks sometimes lost in the clouds; at others, their heads towered in
majesty above them. B