and then at the queer little turreted building
with all its weathercocks glittering in the sun,
he suddenly became aware of voices not far
distant. He stopped—listened—went on a few steps
further—and found that they proceeded from some
lower level than that on which he stood. Having
once ascertained the direction of the sounds, he
followed them rapidly enough. His quick eye
detected a gap in the hedge at the upper end of
the garden. From this gap, a flight of rough
steps led down to a little orchard some eighteen
or twenty feet below—a mere shelf of verdure on
the face of the precipice, commanding a glorious
view all over the valley, and lying full to the
sunset. It was planted thickly with fruit-trees, and
protected at the verge of the cliff by a fragile
rail. At the further end, built up in an angle of
the rock, stood a rustic summer-house newly
thatched with Indian corn-straw. Towards this
point William Trefalden made his way through
the deep grass and the wild flowers.

As he drew nearer, he heard the sounds again.
There was but one voice now—a man's—and he
was reading. What was he reading? Not
German. Not that strange dialect printed in
the "Amity del Pievel." Certainly not Latin.
He advanced a little further. Was it, could it
be—Greek?

Mr. Trefalden's Greek had grown somewhat
rusty these last eighteen years or so; but there
could be no mistake about those sonorous
periods. He recognised the very lines as they
fell from the lips of the speaker—lines sweet and
strong as that god-like wine stored of old in the
chamber of Ulysses. It was many a year since he
had heard them, though at Eton they had been
"familiar in his mouth as household words:"

About our heads elms and tall poplars whispered;
While from its rocky cave beside us trickled
The sacred waters of a limpid fountain.
The cricket chirped i' the hedge, and the sweet
   throstle
Sang loudly from the copse.

Who should this be but Theocritus of Sicily?
William Trefalden could scarcely believe his ears.
Theocritus in the valley of Domleschg! Theocritus
in the mouths of such outer barbarians as the
dwellers in the Château Rotzberg?

Having ended the famous description of the
garden of Phrasidamus, the reader paused.
William Trefalden hastened up to the front of the
summer-house. An old man smoking a German pipe,
and a youth bending over a book, were its only
occupants. Both looked up; and both, by a
simultaneous impulse of courtesy, rose to receive him.

"I beg your pardon," he said, lifting his hat.
"This is, I fear, an unceremonious intrusion;
but I am not quite a stranger, and—"

He checked himself. French was the language
which he had found generally understood in the
Grisons, and he had inadvertently used his native
English.

But the old man bowed, laid his pipe aside,
and replied in English as pure as his own.

"Whoever you may be, sir, you are welcome."

"I think I have the pleasure of addressing a
relative," observed the lawyer. " My name is
William Trefalden."

The old man stepped forward, took him by
both hands, and, somewhat to his surprise,
kissed him on each cheek.

"Cousin," he said, "thou art thrice welcome.
Saxon, my son, embrace thy kinsman."

CHAPTER V. MR. TREFALDEN AND HIS COUSINS.

MR. TREFALDEN took the rustic chair handed
to him by his younger kinsman, and placed it just
against the entrance to the summer-house. It
was his habit, he said, to avoid a strong light,
and the sunset dazzled him. The old man
resumed his seat. The youth remained standing.
Both looked at the new comer with a cordial,
undissembled curiosity; and for a few seconds
there was silence.

Mr. Trefalden's elder kinsman was fragile,
pale, white haired, with brilliant dark eyes, and
thin sensitive lips, that trembled when he spoke
earnestly. The other was a tall, broad-shouldered,
broad-browed, powerful young fellow, with a
boyish down upon his upper lip, and a forest of
thick golden-brown hair, crisp and curly as the
locks of Chaucer's Squire. His eyebrows and
eyelashes were some shades darker than his
hair; and his eyes looked out from beneath them
with an expression half shy, half fearless, such
as we sometimes see in the eyes of children. In
short, he was as goodly a specimen of the race
of Adam as one might hope to meet with between
London and the valley of Domleschg, or even
further; and this Mr. Trefalden could not but
admit at the first glance.

The old man was the first to speak.

"You did not find your way without a guide,
cousin?" said he.

"It was no very difficult achievement," replied
the lawyer. "I enjoyed the walk."

"From Chur?"

"No from Reichenau. I have taken up my
quarters at the 'Adler.' My landlord described
the road to me. It was easy enough to find;
not, perhaps, quite so easy to follow."

"Ah, you came by the footpath. It is sadly
out of repair, and would seem steep to a stranger.
Saxon, go bid Kettli prepare supper; and open
a bottle of d'Asti wine. Our cousin is weary."

Mr. Trefalden hastened to excuse himself; but
it was of no avail. The old gentleman insisted
that he should "at least break bread and drink
wine" with them; and Mr. Trefalden, seeing
that he attached some patriarchal import to this
ceremony, yielded the point.

"You have a son, sir, of whom you maybe
proud," said he, looking after the youth as he
strode away through the trees.

The old man smiled, and with the smile his
whole face grew tender and gracious.

"He is my great hope and joy," he replied;
"but he is not my son. He is the only child of
my dear brother, who died twelve years ago."

Mr. Trefalden had already heard this down at