o ask with whom he had come, but a sudden fear
overpowered her and she was unable to speak a word.

Accompanied by the waiting-maid, she stepped into the boat. An old
boatman and his daughter rowed the rudderless skiff. The waters of the
lake were deep and dark. The sun was setting, and the shadows of the
western mountains were reflected in dark outlines on the hills along
the shore. The fresh-fallen snow lay on the glaciers, whose white
crests contrasted sharply with the wooded hills of the foreground and
the clear blue sky. Below, all was as silent and dusky as though they
were sailing into the realm of shadows.

"Is this your daughter?" asked Irma, addressing the old boatman.

He nodded a glad assent, delighted to find her conversant with the
dialect of that portion of the country. Her intercourse with Walpurga
had kept her in practice.

"Yes," replied the boatman, "and she'd like to go into service with
some good family. She can sew well and--"

"Remain with your father; that's the best thing you can do," said Irma
to the girl.

They rowed on in silence. "How deep is the lake here?" inquired Irma.

"Sixty fathoms, at least." Irma's hand played with the water, and she
was pleased with the thought that human beings could so easily and
boldly move along over a threatening, watery grave. She leaned a little
way over the side of the boat, and the boatman called out:

"Take care, miss!"

"I can swim," replied Irma, splashing the waves.

"That's all very well," said the old man, laughing. "They can all swim
until they have to, and then all's over; and if they happen to have
clothes hanging to them, mighty few can swim."

"You're right there. Our gay frippery would drag us down."

The old man did not understand her and made no reply.

She was quite excited and asked: "Have many persons been drowned in
this lake?"

"Very few; but just below us, there's the body of a young man,
twenty-one years old."

"How was he lost?"

"They say he'd been drinking too freely, but I think that he had a
sweetheart in the convent over there. It's a good thing she don't know
of it."

Irma looked down into the waves, while the old man continued:

"And over there by the rock the trunk of a tree struck a woodcutter and
hurled him into the lake. Over there by the flood-gate, a milkmaid,
fifteen years old, happened to get into the current where the drift
logs were whirling along, and by the time her body reached the lake,
eve