Who loved it. William Gurney in the end
Made sullen pledge to see the winter out
And do a labourer's work about the farm.

But when the Year had grown white-hair'd and old,
Shrill-voiced, and thin, and grewsome in its age,
It came to pass that men and women stole
On tiptoe through the chambers of the farm,
And Matthew Morton, peevish in his fear,
Fretted amid his household. For the babe
Lay grieved with sickness. William Gurney toiled
And wore the old dark looks; but when the night
Stole down and darkened in the grievous house,
He watched the little infant now and then,
And read the crying wishes in its eyes
As with a woman's instinct, feeling all
The tenderer man at work about his heart.
And when the little life was laid asleep,
Dressed in its milk-white garments for the grave,
And when the music of the churchyard bells
Broke through the blood of Matthew and his name,
He spoke not, weak as foam. But the good God
Who willed so well that every mortal man
Should know that he was once a little child,
Heard William, when the pretty baby died,
Mourn with a sense of joy. Ah! true it is
That fellowship with pity made this heart
Yearn to a weeping woman and her babe,
Just for the gladness held in utter tears.

So in the very end it came to pass,
When May was singing with a shining face,
Like some fair angel singing songs of God,
And writing God's soft poems with the flowers,
That Matthew Morton's household caught a joy
Due to the season, and the season spread
Its many bounties with a sowing hand.
For there had sprung in William Gurney's heart
A second birth of love, completer far
Than first-love kisses; and the love had borne
Hopes sheltered in the bosom of stern will.
Then erring Mary Morton, with her child,
Knelt at the Farmer's feet in tender tears,
And William said, " I bring you back your child;
I, William Gurney, he who sinned the sin,
And taught her tears, do bring you back your child
My wedded wife." But Matthew Morton shook,
And turned away his face; when William said,
"Behold the sin is chastened, and she is
My wedded wife." But Matthew Morton shook
Down to the roots of life, and hid his face
Between his hands. Then William, frowning, said,
"She is my wedded wife—my love and wife;
I love her, Matthew Morton. For the sake
Of all she was, or only for the sake
Of the poor youngling ye have lost, I say,
Father, forgive her!"—when the old man's soul
Broke, and he fell upon his knees and wept,
Praying. So William Gurney stood apart,
While Matthew raised his daughter from the earth,
Answering the love and gladness in her heart
With smiles, and tears, and kisses. Thus the house
Brightened, and listened to the light footfall
Of Mary Morton's child; and William toiled
Both late and early, happy in his toil
And Matthew took delight in Mary's child,
And loved it even as his own asleep;
And heard his name make music on its lips,
Link'd to the lovely name which Mary gained
After her travail. William Gurney toiled,
Happy in toil, and many happy years
Did Mary Morton live a thrifty life
Among her children. William throve, and soon
Had earned some golden acres of his own,
And, dwelling in his household till the end,
Sought out and brought to light the golden chain
Which links a homely happiness to God.

DOWN A CREVASSE.

I ARRIVED in Chamouny on the 6th of August,
1859, with a friend and companion, an Englishman
like myself. We two had been about five
weeks in Switzerland, and in that time had
"done" everything considered necessary by our
countrymen. We had acquired some experience
in glacier work, having ascended the Alitsch
Horn, whose summit had been reached for the
first time by an Englishman, a member of the
Alpine Club, only two months before. We
made the ascent successfully, and were proud
of having been the second exploring party to
stand on its lofty peak, nearly fourteen thousand
feet high. On that occasion we passed two
whole days on the snow and glacier.

I remembered well the first glimpse I had had
into one of those terrible crevasses which intersect
glaciers. Getting a guide to hold my hand,
I leaned over its yawning brink and gazed
carefully into the fathomless abyss. The two
perpendicular walls of ice appeared to join
together about three hundred feet down; an
appearance resulting from the convexity of the
crevasse. Usually, I believe, the great split
ends only where the glacier touches the ground
beneath.

"No one who falls into' one of these ever
comes out alive," said one of our guides. " Yes,"
said another, "a man once escaped, and lives
still at the Grindelwald; he was a chamois
hunter, and when coming home alone over the
glacier, his foot slipped, and he was precipitated
into a crevasse. His fall was broken by projecting
ledges and blocks of ice; which, however,
gave way as he clung to them. After falling
three hundred feet, he reached the bottom of
the glacier, with a leg and an arm broken. He
found a hollow space between the ground and
the ice, through which a stream, of water ran.
Instinctively he followed its course, despite the
great pain he endured, and after crawling along
for three hours, found himself freed from the
glacier."

Ordinary crevasses are from three to eight
feet wide at top, but the sides approach each
other rapidly, so that a man would be wedged
in between the two walls of ice long before he
could reach the bottom. And then, unless there
should be ropes at hand long enough and strong
enough, what an awful death! An unfortunate
Russian gentleman perished thus in a crevasse
only last year, half frozen, half squeezed to
death, the heat of his body ever melting the
ice, he ever sinking deeper and deeper into his
dreadful grave.

My companion and I ascended the Brevant,
and, as few climbing travellers leave Chamouny
without visiting the Mer de Glace and the
Jardin, we arranged to make that excursion. To
shorten our day's work, we left Chamouny in the