ace; but
before Kennedy in the midst of enjoyment, the memory of a dishonourable
act started like a spectre, and threw a sudden shadow on his brow. He
felt its presence when he saw the sun rise from Rigi; it stood by him
amid the wreathing mists of Pilatus; it even checked his enthusiasm as
they gazed together on the unequalled glories spread beneath the green
summit of Monterone, and as their graceful boat made ripples on the
moonlit waves of Orta and Lugans. In a word, the conviction of weakness
was the only alloying influence to the pleasure of his tour, the one
absinthe-drop that lent bitterness to the honeyed wine. It was not only
the consciousness of the wrong act and its possible results, but horror
at the instability of moral principle which it showed, and a deep fear
lest the same weakness should prove a snare and a ruin to him in the
course of future life.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A DAY OF WONDER.

"Flowers are lovely. Love is flowerlike,
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys that came down showerlike
With virtue, truth, and liberty,
When I was young."--Coleridge.

"To-morrow, then, we are all to ascend the Schilthorn," said Mr
Kennedy, as he bade good-night to the merry party assembled in the salle
a manger of the chalet inn at Murrem.

"Or as high as we ladies can get," said Mrs Dudley.

"Oh, we'll get you up, aunt," said Kennedy; "if Julian and my father and
I can't get you and Miss Home and Eva up, we're not worth much."

"To say nothing of _me_" said Cyril, putting his arms akimbo, with a
look of immense importance.

"Breakfast, then, at five to-morrow morning, young people," said Mr
Kennedy, retiring; and full of happy anticipations they went off to bed.

Punctually at five they were all seated round the breakfast-table,
eagerly discussing the prospects of the day.

"I say, _did_ any of you see the first sunbeam tip the Jungfrau this
morning?" said Kennedy. "It looked like--like--what did it look like,
Miss Home?"

"Like the golden rim of a crown of pearls," said Violet, smiling. "And
did you see the morning star, shining above the orange-coloured line of
morning light, over the hills behind us, Eva? What did that remind you
of?"

"Oh, I can't _invent_ poetic similes," answered Eva. "I must take
refuge in Wordsworth's--

"`Sweet as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.'"

"Yes," said Julian; "or Browning's--

"`One star--the chrysolite!'"

"Hum!"