while he was wandering, sketch-book in hand,
among the High Alps, picking up subjects for an
illustrated work on Switzerland. Having entered
the Oberland by the Brunig Pass, and filled his
portfolio with what he used to call " bits " from
the neighbourhood of Meyringen, he went over
the Great Scheideck to Grindlewald, where he
arrived one dusky September evening, about
three-quarters of an hour after sunset. There
had been a fair that day, and the place was
crowded. In the best inn there was not an inch
of space to spare—there were only two inns at
Grindlewald, thirty years ago—so my brother
went to one at the end of the covered bridge next
the church, and there, with some difficulty,
obtained the promise of a pile of rugs and a
mattress, in a room which was already occupied
by three other travellers.

The Adler was a primitive hostelry, half
farm, half inn, with great rambling galleries
outside, and a huge general room, like a barn.
At the upper end of this room stood long stoves,
like metal counters, laden with steaming-pans,
and glowing underneath like furnaces. At the
lower end, smoking, supping, and chatting, were
congregated some thirty or forty guests, chiefly
mountaineers, char drivers, and guides. Among
these my brother took his seat, and was served,
like the rest, with a bowl of soup, a platter of
beef, a flagon of country wine, and a loaf made of
Indian corn. Presently, a huge St. Bernard dog
came and laid his nose upon my brother's arm.
In the mean time he fell into conversation with
two Italian youths, bronzed and dark-eyed, near
whom he happened to be seated. They were
Florentines. Their names, they told him, were
Stefano and Battisto. They had been travelling
for some months on commission, selling cameos,
mosaics, sulphur casts, and the like pretty Italian
trifles, and were now on their way to Interlaken
and Geneva. Weary of the cold North,
they longed, like children, for the moment
which should take them back to their own blue
hills and grey-green olives; to their workshop on
the Ponte Vecchio, and their home down by the
Arno.

It was quite a relief to my brother, on going up
to bed, to find that these youths were to be two
of his fellow-lodgers. The third was already there,
and sound asleep, with his face to the wall. They
scarcely looked at this third. They were all tired,
and all anxious to rise at daybreak, having agreed
to walk together over the Wengern Alp as far as
Lauterbrunnen. So, my brother and the two
youths exchanged a brief good night, and, before
many minutes, were all as far away in the land
of dreams as their unknown companion.

My brother slept profoundly—so profoundly
that, being roused in the morning by a clamour
of merry voices, he sat up dreamily in his rugs,
and wondered where he was.

"Good day, signor," cried Battisto. "Here
is a fellow-traveller going the same way as
ourselves."

"Christien Baumann, native of Kandersteg,
musical-box maker by trade, stands five feet
eleven in his shoes, and is at monsieur's service
to command," said the sleeper of the night
before.

He was as fine a young fellow as one would
wish to see. Light, and strong, and well
proportioned, with curling brown hair, and bright,
honest eyes that seemed to dance at every
word he uttered.

"Good morning," said my brother. "You
were asleep last night when we came up."

"Asleep! I should think so, after being all
day in the fair, and walking from Meyringen the
evening before. What a capital fair it was!"

"Capital, indeed," said Battisto. "We sold
cameos and mosaics yesterday, for nearly fifty
francs."

"Oh, you sell cameos and mosaics, you two!
Show me your cameos, and I will show you my
musical boxes. I have such pretty ones, with
coloured views of Geneva and Chillon on the lids,
playing two, four, six, and even eight tunes.
Bah! I will give you a concert!"

And with this he unstrapped his pack,
displayed his little boxes on the table, and wound
them up, one after the other, to the delight of the
Italians.

"I helped to make them myself, every one,"
said he, proudly. "Is it not pretty music.? I
sometimes set one of them when I go to bed at
night, and fall asleep listening to it. I am sure,
then, to have pleasant dreams! But let us see
your cameos. Perhaps I may buy one for
Marie, if they are not too dear. Marie is my
sweetheart, and we are to be married next
week."

"Next week!" exclaimed Stefano. " That is
very soon. Battisto has a sweetheart also, up
at Impruneta; but they will have to wait a long
time before they can buy the ring."

Battisto blushed like a girl.

"Hush, brother!" said he. "Show the cameos
to Christien, and give your tongue a holiday!"

But Christien was not so to be put off.

"What is her name?" said he. " Tush!
Battisto, you must tell me her name! Is she pretty?
Is she dark, or fair? Do you often see her when
you are at home? Is she very fond of you?
Is she as fond of you as Marie is of me?"

"Nay, how should I know that?" asked the
soberer Battisto. "She loves me, and I love her—
that is all."

"And her name?"

"Margherita."

"A charming name! And she is herself as
pretty as her name, I'll engage. Did you say
she was fair?"

"I said nothing about it one way or the other,"
said Battisto, unlocking a green box clamped
with iron, and taking out tray after tray of his
pretty wares. "There! Those pictures all inlaid
in little bits are Roman mosaics—these flowers
on a black ground are Florentine. The ground
is of hard dark stone, and the flowers are made
of thin slices of jasper, onyx, cornelian, and so