wondering how it comes to pass that an inn can exist
placed alone in the midst of green pasture-land, and only approached by
a simple foot track, which more than once leads the wayfarer across mere
plank bridges, and which passes, only at long intervals, small groups of
cottages that call themselves villages. You naturally wonder how the
guests at this lonely inn fare with regard to provisions. It is true
that milk is sent down every day from the cows on the green Alps higher
up the mountain, and that the farm boasts of plenty of ducks and fowls,
of eggs and honey. There are a few sheep and goats, too; we have seen
that there are pigs. Fraeulein Christina Fasch makes good bread, and she
is famous for her delicate puddings and sauces; the puzzle is, whence
come the groceries, and the extras, and the wines that are consumed in
the inn?

A mile or so beyond, on a lower spur of the mountain ridge that
overlooks the Rhine, a gap comes in the hedge that screens an almost
precipitous descent into the broad, flat valley. The descent looks more
perilous than it is, for constant use has worn the slender track into a
series of rough steps, which lead to the vine-clad knoll on which is
situated Malans, and at Malans George Fasch, the landlord of our inn,
can purchase all he needs, for it is near a station on the railway line
between Zurich and Coire and close to the busy town of Mayenfeld in the
valley below.

Just now there are no visitors at the inn, so the landlord only makes
his toilsome journey once a fortnight; but when there is a family in the
house he visits the valley more frequently, for he cannot bring very
large stores with him, although he does not spare himself fatigue, and
he mounts the natural ladder with surprising rapidity, considering the
load he carries strapped to his shoulders.

The great joy of Anna was to meet her father at the top of the pass, and
persuade him to lighten his burden by giving her some of it to carry;
and to-day, when she had washed her face and hands, and had changed her
clothes, she wished that he had gone to Malans; his coming back would
have helped her to forget her disaster. Her aunt's words clung to the
girl like burs; and now, as they rang in her ears again, she went into
the wood to have her cry out, unobserved.

She stood leaning against a tree; and, as the tears rolled over her
face, she turned and hid it against the rough red bark of the pine. She
was crying for the loss of the