ing stories.

The maiden blushed and smiled and said that she was.

"Bravo, Helen," said Mr. Oldstone; "remain with us and hear a fresh
story. Professor Cyanite is just going to favour us."

A circle was formed round the fire; Helen seating herself modestly by
the side of the artist, while the professor, sitting back in his chair,
and stretching out his legs towards the fire, stroked his ample
forehead, and with a puff at his pipe, commenced the following story.

CHAPTER VI.

THE DEMON GUIDE; OR, THE GNOME OF THE MOUNTAIN.--THE GEOLOGIST'S STORY.

Some twenty years ago, when I was on a scientific tour in the mountains
of Switzerland with a friend of mine, who travelled with the same object
as myself, a strange incident occurred to me, which I have never been
able satisfactorily to explain. We journeyed in each other's company
daily, each carrying with him a geologist's hammer and a light
travelling bag slung round one shoulder, for the purpose of collecting
specimens of various minerals, fossils, etc., that we might find during
our march.

We jogged along merrily enough together, each day bringing home some
rare specimen or other. We were both in full vigour of health, and both
capital climbers. Mountain air and exercise had given us marvellous
appetites, and I never remember being in better spirits in my life. As
we were not pushed for time or money, and were on a scientific
expedition instead of what is called a pleasure trip, it was less our
object to scour large tracts of country than to stroll leisurely through
the district, making observations by the way.

Travelling, therefore, both with the same object, and not obliged to
hurry onward, we had nothing to try our tempers, as ordinary tourists
have, who travel in company and usually fall out with each other by the
way because one with short wind can't keep up with his longer-winded
companion.

Nothing, perhaps, is more trying to the temper than being obliged to
keep pace with a well-trained mountaineer if you yourself happen to be
out of training. To see him striding on ahead with the most perfect ease
and enjoyment, whilst you are toiling and sweating, and puffing and
gasping in the rear, parched with thirst and ready to drop with fatigue;
perhaps knee deep in snow, plunging about like a porpoise, in the
frantic attempt to keep up with your well-trained companion.

Why, the treadmill is a joke to it! How you curse your folly for coming
to visit