for the pastor's anxiety to reach home. Down into the sweet valley of the Megringen, and northward by Grindenwald and Thun, and up the steep heights over which falls the white foam of Reichenbach; and farther on towards the crystal Rosenlani, and the tall, still Engel Horner, we came to a little village cradled in security beneath the towering hills; the church-spire glancing in the sunlight, and the simple cottagers jubilant in welcoming home their beloved pastor.

"At the door of the pastor's home we were met by a sweet-browed woman with a lovely infant in her arms, crowing and laughing as the father kissed it over and over again; while a boy of ten and a girl of six summers, ran with open arms to greet him.

"'You stayed so long, papa.'

"'And we missed you so much,' after the first greeting.

"'This young friend was very ill; you would not have had me leave him?'

"'Oh, no, papa, but'—when the little Griselda stopped suddenly, and threw a half-defiant glance at my face, and Thorwald stood measuring me with his great black eyes.

"Hardly recovered from my illness, I stayed with the good pastor Ortler through Christmas week, and a month afterwards. Never did I pass pleasanter days. The wife Rosalind was as kind as a sister, and her children grew soon to like me as an old friend. Very simple was their manner of life, while the air they breathed was fragrant with the love they bore to Him who made and redeemed them, and who had in his good providence, set them in a pleasant place.

"Christmas to them was not a week of jubilee alone. Busy hands decorated the little church, and visits were made to the poor and sick, and presents were given without the hope of reward. Sitting by the parlor fire at night, the pastor told of the parishioners he had seen, their wants and needs; while Rosalind knit stockings, and fashioned garments.

"'It would seem that one so well fitted for society would tire of this narrow bound,' I once said. With an eye brimming over with tenderness, the pastor replied: 'There are souls to save here quite as precious as anywhere else.' I felt humbled before his quiet glance. This was the work for him to do; this was the work he loved. What matter in what part of the vineyard? wherever there was a soul. But this mountain grandeur pleased him. These quiet solitudes led him upward. The glorious diadem of the hills was always urging him onward. Hard and self-denying as his life, he had ample recompense in daily, hourly communion with the Father through the majesty of his works."

"I should like to live where I could see all this," whispered Carry.

"The heart that loves, finds beauty and grandeur everywhere." responded uncle Paul; "not only the mountain passes, but the valleys echo His praise, and there are few places so sterile but human lives abound."

"Griselda and Thorwald, have you seen them since?" asked Carry.

"Ten years afterwards, I saw them. Griselda was a tall stately girl, with blue laughing eyes, and curls of pale brown, and Thorwald was a student at Geneva. Pastor Ortler was still the same, preaching to his little flock, and giving freely of his means, his wife only slightly older. Once more we wandered over the heights and in the valleys, the spots where I lingered years before, plucking a flower and drinking from the cold glacier water. Afterward, when it became necessary for me to return, good pastor Ortler and his wife went with me, and together we passed a winter in Milan."

"And Griselda?" asked Carry.

"Oh, uncle Paul, Griselda was"—and Carry glanced up at the portrait of a young and beautiful woman hanging in a niche on the left-hand of the fireplace. Uncle Paul's portrait occupied the other side. Silence brooded over them; while to Carry it seemed the lady in the picture looked as if with recognition in her eyes. How delicate, how aerial she seemed! yet real, and true. Was it any wonder uncle Paul was so good, having had the companionship of such a spirit so many years? And as she looked, the stately frame seemed to open, and the lady to come down from her place and seat herself on the other arm of uncle Paul's chair, and to lay her head on his shoulder.

"To do good was her aim, Carry; may it be yours," said uncle Paul, and the spell was broken.

A Sabbath In Lausanne.

After a long journey we arrived at the head of the lake of Geneva, by far the most interesting portion of this sheet of water. The mountains on the left of the valley are extremely wild and majestic, and at their feet, close on the borders of the lake, is the little village where I had promised to spend the Sabbath with my old friend Wagner. The sun had gone down, but a rosy flush tinged the clouds and lingered about the tops of the mountains.

The walk was not long to the parsonage, a low rambling cottage, with deep windows and overhanging roof, embowered in trees and fragrant with the breath of flowers. All this we took in at a look, and without any break in the talk, taking us back as it did to the day when we bade good-by to the college and its professors, and shook hands with each other for the last time. Looking into Wagner's face it did not seem so long ago; while I, floating round the world, had gathered experience enough to make me feel, if not look, something older. At the porch we were met by Maude, her slight girlish figure rounded into the perfection of womanhood, the rich bloom of her cheek not quite as deep perhaps; but the sweet blue eyes met mine with all the old frankness, the charming naivete that had rendered her so much a favorite when a child.

Sitting there in the lessening light it all came back; the old university at Basle, and above all, the old professor, Maude's father, whom we all loved.

"His place is well filled, and still we miss him," said Wagner.

There were tears in the young wife's eyes, and rising hastily she disappeared into the house. A few moments later she appeared, her face smiling and glad, a very sweet-faced babe clasped in her arms, another tugging at her gown. "Allow me to show my treasures," she said, as she seated herself beside me. Hours passed as hours will when friends have been separated for years. Then came a summons to tea; and after that Maude put up her jewels, and the pastor introduced me to his study. Summer though it was, a bright fire of sticks was burning on the hearth; bright, but not too bright to exclude the outside view. Slowly the purple curtain drooped over the mountains, falling lower and lower, until the small village, the tiled roofs, and the wooden spire were wrapped in a cloud of dusky haze.

"You have wondered why I content myself here, when a professorship was offered me at Basle," said Wagner at length. "It was a temptation, I allow; and when I thought of Maude and the social position from which I had taken her, I hesitated. She did not, however. 'These people love you, and your preaching is blessed to them. I am afraid if you leave, there will be no one else; and one soul saved outweighs all their professorships.' It was sweetly said, and I knew by the look on her face that her heart was in keeping with her words, and I answered her accordingly."

It was late, and the next day would be the Sabbath. Maude joined us, when a hymn was sung and a prayer offered, and we slept.

The sun was shining when I awoke, and opening my lattice I looked away to, the mountains, their white heads mellowed with a glory that inspired only thoughts of that God who made all things, and who holds them by the power of his might. There was a stir in the village, just enough to show the inhabitants were not sleeping away the precious hours. A cheerful, calm reigned, in keeping with the hallowed day; the very birds sang in a subdued and still triumphant tone, as if they knew 'twas holy time; while the dumb cattle, feeding on the road, cropped the brown grass noiselessly. Gliding down the broad stairway, I opened the study door. The pastor was there, and I saw by the open