!" he cried, "I forgive my father too; but I have lost him.
I never knew the real man."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG.

On the same August morning when Felix was riding up the long lovely
lanes to Phebe Marlowe's little farmstead, Canon Pascal and Alice were
starting by the earliest boat which left Lucerne for Stansstad, in the
dewy coolness of the dawn. The short transit was quickly over, and an
omnibus carried them into Stans, where they left their knapsacks to be
sent on after them during the day. The long pleasant walk of fourteen
miles to Engelberg lay before them, to be taken leisurely, with many a
rest in the deep cool shades of the woods, or under the shadow of some
great rock. The only impediment with which Alice burdened herself was a
little green slip of ivy, which Felix had gathered from the walls of her
country home, and which she had carried in a little flower-pot filled
with English soil, to plant on his father's grave. It had been a sacred,
though somewhat troublesome charge to her, as they had travelled from
place to place, and she had not permitted any one to take the care of it
off her hands. This evening, with her own hands, she was going to plant
it upon the foreign grave of Roland Sefton; which had been so long
neglected, and unvisited by those whom he had left behind him. That
Felicita should never have made a pilgrimage to this sacred spot was a
wonder to her; but that she should so steadily resist the wish of Felix
to visit his father's resting-place, filled Alice's heart with grave
misgivings for her own future happiness.

But she was not troubling herself with any misgivings to-day, as they
journeyed onward and upward through the rich meadows and thick forests
leading to the Alpine valley which lay under the snowy dome of the
Titlis. Her father's enjoyment of the sweet solitude and changeful
beauty of their pathway was too perfect for her to mar it by any
mournful forebodings. He walked beside her under the arched aisles of
the pine-woods bareheaded, singing snatches of song as joyously as a
school-boy, or waded off through marshy and miry places in quest of some
rare plant which ought to be growing there, splashing back to her
farther on in the winding road, scarcely less happy if he had not found
it than if he had. How could she be troubled whilst her father was
treading on enchanted ground?

But the last time they allowed themselves to sit down to rest before
entering