was a general air of neatness; but
there was a lack of comforts such as we are accustomed to see at home.
There was no lamp in the room; only on the hearth a pine-knot nearly
spent, sending out now a bright light, then wavering, bringing out
shadows on the wall, and permitting us to catch glimpses of the
outdoor radiance, the silvery effulgence of the rocks and hills.

The sick man slept, and now his breathing was as sweet as an infant's.
I rose to look at him, his bronzed face bleached to a deathly pallor,
his high brow seamed with furrows, and his hair like a network of
silver falling over the coarse white pillow.

"Has he been long ill?" I asked.

"It is about three months now," and Franz drew up a little stand, and
lifted the Bible that had been lying open on the bed to the table.

"Annette spoke of reading him to sleep; was this the book?" I
questioned.

"Father has come to like this since he was sick; he don't care for any
other."

"Then he has not always liked it?"

"No, sir."

"May I know, Franz, when you first learned to love this book?"

He looked up with such a shy, timid look, and still with the same
frankness that had characterized him during the day. Just then Annette
entered, whispered to Franz, and both went out. In a moment Franz
returned.

"Annette was afraid it would not do; it is the best we have, and I
know you must be hungry."

White bread, and strawberries, and goat's milk; while the bottle of
sour wine I had seen in the morning graced the table. I had not
expected such a tempting meal, and I was hungry, as Franz said. Taking
his seat Franz raised his eyes to mine. There was no mistaking its
upward, grateful glance. Bowing our heads, we asked a blessing, and
then picking up the broken thread, Franz went on to tell me of
himself.

Franz's Story.

"It is nearly four years since an English gentleman and his daughter
visited Chamouni, and my father was their guide. Mr. Wyndham was a
gentleman of refined manners; a Christian man, loving God, and
speaking of that love with the earnestness of one who wishes others to
love Him also. His daughter Alice, a frail, gentle girl, was one of
those beings that seem lent, not given; the last of a large family,
and herself not strong. Her father brought her to Lausanne, hoping
that pure air and change of scene would restore and invigorate her. I
hardly know why, but certain it is that my father was never so much
interested in travellers before;