quite alone, I reflected on these things. I thought how beautiful they were, and when people talked of this and that, of whortleberries, and mulberries, and heaths, I said to myself, “I know what all these things are like—they are black, or brown, or green.” I could see them in my mind, and every day I became better acquainted with them, thanks to my dear bees; and therefore I love them dearly, Monsieur Hennetius. If you knew how it grieves me when the time comes for robbing them of their wax and their honey!’
“‘I believe you, my child—I believe it does.’
“My delight at this wonderful discovery was boundless.
“Two days longer Raesel entertained me with a description of her impressions. She was acquainted with every flower, every Alpine plant, and gave me an account of a great number which have as yet received no botanical names, and which are probably only to be found in inaccessible situations.
“The poor girl was often much affected when she spoke of her dear friends, some little flowers.
“‘Often and often,’ said she, ‘I have talked for hours with the golden broom or the tender blue-eyed forget-me-not, and shared in their troubles. They all wished to quit the earth and fly about; they all complained of their being condemned to dry up in the ground, and of being exposed to wait for days and weeks ere a drop of dew came to refresh them.’
“And so Raesel used to repeat to me endless conversations of this sort. It was marvellous! If you only heard her you would be capable of falling in love with a dogrose, or of feeling a lively sympathy and a profound sentiment of compassion for a violet, its misfortunes and its silent sufferings.
“What more can I tell you, ladies? It is painful to leave a subject where the soul has so many mysterious emanations; there is such a field for conjecture; but as everything in this world must have an end, so must even the pleasantest dreams.
“Early in the morning of the third day of my stay a gentle breeze began to roll away the mist from off the lake. I could see its folds become larger every second as the wind drove them along, leaving one blue corner in the sky, and then another; then the tower of a village church, some green pinnacles on the tops of the mountains, then a row of firs, a valley, all the time the immense mass of vapour slowly floated past us; by ten it had left us behind it, and the great cloud on the dry peaks of the Chasseron still wore a threatening aspect; but a last effort of the wind gave it a different direction, and it disappeared at last in the gorges of Saint-Croix.
“Then the mighty nature of the Alps seemed to me to have grown young again; the heather, the tall pines, the old chestnut-trees dripping with dew, shone with vigorous health; there was something in the view of them joyous, smiling, and serious all at once. One felt the hand of God was in it all—His eternity.
“I went downstairs lost in thought; Raesel was already in the apiary. Young opened the door and pointed her out to me sitting in the shade of the wild vine, with her forehead resting on her hands, as if in a doze.
“‘Be careful,’ said he to me, ‘not to awake her; her mind is elsewhere; she sleeps; she is wandering about; she is happy.’
“The bees were swarming about by thousands, like a flood of gold over a precipice.
“I looked on at this wonderful sight for some seconds, praying the Lord would continue His love for the poor child.
“Then turning round—
“‘Master Young,’ said I, ‘it is time to go.’
“He buckled my knapsack on for me himself, and put my stick into my hand.
“Mistress Catherine looked on kindly, and they both accompanied me to the threshold of the châlet.
“‘Farewell!’ said Walter, grasping my hand; ‘a pleasant journey; and think of us sometimes!’
“‘I can never forget you,’ I replied, quite melancholy; ‘may your bees flourish, and may Heaven grant you are as happy as you deserve to be!’
“‘So be it, M. Hennetius,’ said good Dame Catherine; ‘amen; a happy journey, and good health to you.’
“I moved off.
“They remained on the terrace until I reached the road.
“Thrice I turned round and waved my cap, and they responded by waving their hands.
“Good people; why cannot we meet with such every day?’
“Little Raesel accompanied me to the foot of the mountain, as she had promised. For a long time her musical hum lightened the fatigue of my journey; I seemed to recognise her in every bee which came buzzing about my ears, and I fancied I could hear her say in a small shrill tone of voice—
“‘Courage, M. Hennetius, courage; it is very hot, is it not? Come, let me give you a kiss; don’t be afraid; you know we are very good friends.’
“It was only at the end of the valley that she took leave of me, when the sound of the lake drowned her gentle voice; but her idea followed me all through my journey, nor do I think it will ever leave me.”
A FOREST BETROTHAL
One day in the month of June, 1845, Master Zacharias’ fishing-basket was so full of salmon-trout, about three o’clock in the afternoon, that the good man was loath to take any more; for, as Pathfinder says: “We must leave some for to-morrow!” After having washed his in a stream and carefully covered them with field-sorrel and rowell, to keep them fresh; after having wound up his line and bathed his hands and face; a sense of drowsiness tempted him to take a nap in the heather. The heat was so excessive that he preferred to wait until the shadows lengthened before reclimbing the steep ascent of Bigelberg.
Breaking his crust of bread and wetting his lips with a draught of Rikevir, he climbed down fifteen or twenty steps from the path and stretched himself on the moss-covered ground, under the shade of the pine-trees; his eyelids heavy with sleep.
A thousand animate creatures had lived their long life of an hour, when the judge was wakened by the whistle of a bird, which sounded strange to him. He sat up to look around, and judge his surprise; the so-called bird was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age; fresh, with rosy cheeks and vermilion lips, brown hair, which hung in two long tresses behind her. A short poppy-colored skirt, with a tightly-laced bodice, completed her costume. She was a young peasant, who was rapidly descending the sandy path down the side of Bigelberg, a basket poised on her head, and her arms a little sunburned, but plump, were gracefully resting on her hips.
“Oh, what a charming bird; but she whistles well and her pretty chin, round like a peach, is sweet to look upon.”
Mr. Zacharias was all emotion—a rush of hot blood, which made his heart beat, as it did at twenty, coursed through his veins. Blushing, he arose to his feet.
“Good-day, my pretty one!” he said.
The young girl stopped short—opened her big eyes and recognized him (for who did not know the dear old Judge Zacharias in that part of the country?).
“Ah!” she said, with a bright smile, “it is Mr. Zacharias Seiler!”
The old man approached her—he tried to speak—but all he could do was to stammer a few unintelligible words, just like a very young man—his
