number of times and tied in several knots in front. Then came the high wall of coat-collar and the blue cloth tail-coat itself, with its loosely-hanging pockets, from one of which the humorous artist had made a bun peep out. The coat was loosely buttoned up to the icicle. The trousers were grey, very tight and short; the boots, also grey, were broad and long. So the little man sat there, holding the pipe-stem with both hands, smoking contentedly. The smoke rose in delicate rings and hearts.

The artist must have been an odd genius, and the subject still more odd. One or the other was surely the old schoolmaster, who had disappeared in such an inexplicable manner, after having taught for fifty years in this place. "And invisible he wanders around day and night in Winkelsteg, at every hour!"

I went to bed, and lay there thinking, not in the least realising what manner of man had built this house, and rested in this place before me.

The fire in the stove crackled fainter and fainter and was dying out. Outside the rain pattered, yet such a silence lay over all that I seemed to hear the breathing of the night. I was just falling asleep, when all at once, quite close above me, began a cheerful sound, and several times in succession the call of the quail rang out loud and merrily. It was deceptively like the beautiful voice of the bird in the cornfield. It was the old clock, which in such a strange way had announced to me the eleventh hour.

And the sweet tones led my thoughts and dreams out into the sunny cornfields, to the waving stalks, to the bright blue flowers, to the dazzling butterflies, and thus I fell asleep that night in the mysterious schoolhouse in Winkelsteg.

As the call of the quail had lulled me to sleep, so it awakened me again. It was the sixth hour of the morning.

The mild warmth from the stove filled the room; the walls and ceiling were as though bathed in moonlight. It was the month of July, and the sun must have already risen. I arose and drew back one of the blue window-curtains. The large panes were wet and grey; here and there a pearly drop, freeing itself, rolled down through the countless bubbles, leaving behind a narrow path, through which the dark-brown church roof could be seen.

I opened the window; a chilly air penetrated the room. The rain had ceased; upon the graveyard wall lay icicles, lodged there by the storm, together with broken bark and tops of branches. By the church were bits of shingle from the roof; the windows were protected with boards. Some ash trees stood near by, and the water dripped from the few leaves which the hail had spared. Yonder rose the vanishing image of a chimney; everything beyond that was hidden by the fog.

I had abandoned all thought of the Alpine climb for that day. While dressing, I looked at the mechanism of the old Black Forest clock, which, by means of two flat bits of wood beating against each other, so strikingly reproduced the warbling notes of the quail. Afterwards I rummaged awhile among the papers in the drawer, as it was still too early for breakfast. I noticed that, excepting the drawings, calculations, and those papers which served as an album for the plants, all the written sheets were of the same size, and numbered with red ink. I tried to arrange the leaves, and occasionally cast a glance at their contents. It seemed to be a kind of diary, bearing reference to Winkelsteg. But the writings were so full of peculiar expressions and irregularly-formed sentences that study and some translation would be necessary to make them intelligible.

This task, however, did not discourage me; for here I hoped to find an account of the isolated Alpine village, and perhaps even facts concerning the life of the lost schoolmaster. While busily arranging the papers and thoroughly absorbed in my work, I suddenly discovered a thick grey sheet upon which was written in large red letters: "THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY."

So, in a way, I had put a book together, and the leaf with the red letters I had laid by chance on top as a title.

In the meanwhile, my quail had announced the eighth hour, and from the church tower two clear little bells rang out for mass. The priest, a slender man with a pale face, walked from his house up the stone steps to the church. A few men and women followed him, and, while still far from the door, bared their heads, or, taking out their rosaries at the entrance, sprinkled themselves reverently with holy water.

Leaving the schoolhouse, I crossed the rough, sandy ground, and, attracted by the friendly sound of the organ, entered the place of worship. Upon the first glance, the interior seemed much the same as in any village church—yet in reality it was quite different.

Usually the poorer such a church, the more silver and gold is seen sparkling within—all the candlesticks and vessels, of silver, all the decorations, the robes of the saints, the angels' wings, and even the clouds in the sky, of gold. But it is only make-believe. I cannot blame that peasant for exclaiming, the first time he arranged the service for mass, thus making nearer acquaintance with the images and altars: "Our saints seem so fine and sparkle so from a distance, one would suppose heaven to be filled with very grand people; but when one looks closer, they are nothing but trash."

In the church at Winkelsteg I found it otherwise. Although here everything was made of wood, mostly of the commonest pine, it was not decorated with gaudy colors, glittering tinsel and such ornaments; it was simply itself, not attempting to be anything more.

The walls were grey, and almost bare. In one corner of the nave clung a few swallows' nests, the occupants of which had remained for the service, and in their own way were joining in the Sanctus. It was evident that the floor of the choir above, the confessional, chancel, and praying-benches, had been made by common home carpenters. The baptismal font had never seen a stone-cutter, nor the high altar a sculptor. But there were taste and design in everything. The altar was a high, dignified table, reached by three broad steps. It was covered with simple white linen, and under a canopy of white silk were the holy relics, surrounded by six slender candle-sticks, carved from linden-wood. But that which impressed me the most, which touched and almost overpowered me, was a high, bare wooden cross towering above the canopy.

It could not always have stood there; it was grey and weather-beaten, the fibre washed by the rain, and with deep fissures formed by the sun. That was the Winkelsteg altar-piece. I have never heard a preacher speak more earnestly or impressively of love and patience, of sacrifice and renunciation, than did this silent cross upon the altar.

I next observed something which seemed almost out of keeping with the poverty and simplicity, otherwise reigning in this house of God, but which in reality added to its peace and harmony. On either side of the altar were two high, narrow, painted windows, casting a soft, roseate half light over the chancel.

The priest was celebrating mass; the few present knelt in their chairs, praying quietly; the soft, trembling notes of the organ seemed to join reverently with them, like a weeping intercessor before God, supplicating for the poor parish which, through the storm of yesterday, had a new burden to bear in the loss of its harvest.

When the mass was over, and the people had risen, crossed themselves and