continues
turbid all the way to the sea. There is no other lake to settle it.

"I am told," said Mr. Holiday, "that the coming in of the turbid torrent
of the Arve into the clear blue waters of the Rhone is a very pretty
spectacle, and I should like very much to see it; but it is rather too
far to go."

"O, no, father," said Rollo; "let us go."

"How far is it?" asked Mrs. Holiday.

"About a mile, I should think, by the map," said Mr. Holiday; "but there
seems to be no carriage road to the place. If there had been a carriage
road I should have taken you there; for I should like very well to have
you see the place."

"But, father, we can walk there very easily," said Rollo. "There is a
nice path along the bank of the river. I saw it the other day, when I
was down below the bridge."

"Well," said Mrs. Holiday, "I should like to go very much, if we could
go in the morning or in the evening, when it is cool. Is the walk shady,
Rollo?"

"Yes, mother, it is shady in the morning. There is a high hedge all
along on one side of the path, and that keeps the sun off in the
morning. In the evening the sun comes round to the other side."

"Then we will go in the morning," said Mrs. Holiday. "Let us get up
early to-morrow morning, and go before breakfast."

Mrs. Holiday was really desirous of seeing this famous junction of the
Rhone and the Arve; but her chief interest in making the excursion arose
from her sympathy with Rollo, and from observing how much he wished to
go. It is always so with a mother. When her children are kind and
attentive to her, and obedient to her wishes, she always desires most
strongly to do what will most gratify them.

The plan was arranged according to Mrs. Holiday's proposal, and the next
morning the party set out at half past six o'clock. Rollo led the way.

"What I should like best," said Rollo, turning round so as to face his
father and mother, and walking backward, "would be to take a boat, and
shoot down the river under these bridges."

"Ah," said his father, "that would not do. The current is too swift. At
any rate, if you were to go down you would never get the boat back
again. The water runs like a mill race.

"Indeed, it _is_ a mill race," continued Mr. Holiday. "Don't you see the
mill wheels projecting into the stream, here and there? They are carried
by the natural force of the current."

After passing by the buildings of the town, Rollo led the way over a
narrow wooden bridge