suggested the father one evening, while they sat
talking it over, as usual, in the chimney-corner,
"when he grows up, you know, and the money
really falls due —what then?"

"What do you mean, Sax?"

"He won't know what to do with it."

"But you will," replied the pastor, sharply,
"and, after all, 'tis you are the heir —not he.
You never seem to remember that, brother Sax."

The farmer made no reply.

"And by that time, too," continued Martin,
"the boy will be old enough to understand the
right uses of wealth."

"You'll teach him those, brother Martin," said
the farmer.

"You and I together."

Saxon the elder smoked on in silence for a
moment or two; then, laying his hand gently on
the pastor's sleeve, " Brother Martin," he said,
"thou'rt younger than I, as I have reminded
thee once or twice before.  I don't believe that
I have a very long life before me.  I don't feel as
if I should ever inherit that fortune, or see my
boy with a beard upon his chin."

He was right.  He died, as we know, twelve
years before the century expired, and Martin
Trefalden continued to bring up his nephew in
his own way. He could ride his hobby now at
any pace he pleased, without even the interruption
of a meek question by the way; so he
ambled on year after year with his eyes shut,
and refused to recognise the fact that Saxon was
no longer a boy.  He made himself wilfully
blind both to his moustache and his inches.  He
would not believe that the time was already
come for discussing the forbidden subject.  He
could not endure to tell his young Spartan that
he must one day be rich; and so, as it were, be
the first to raise his hand against that fabric of
unworldliness which it had been the labour of
his life to erect.

Of late, however, he had "had misgivings."
He had begun to wonder whether perfect
ignorance of life was really the best preparation for a
career of usefulness, and whether the college at
Geneva might not have proved a better school
for his nephew than the solitude of Domleschg.

Thus matters stood when William Trefalden,
Esquire, of Chancery-lane, London, made his
appearance at the Château Rotzberg; and thus
it happened that his cousin Saxon, the heir to
four millions and a half of funded property, had
no notion of the value of a Napoleon.

      CHAPTER VIII. MR. TREFALDEN MEETS
            ACQUAINTANCES BY THE WAy.

PUNCTUAL as the minute-hand of the quaint
little Swiss timepiece on the mantelshelf was
Saxon to his appointment.  The first metallic
chime of the half-hour was just striking as he
reached the inn door, and the rapid smiting of
his iron heel on the paved corridor leading to
the salon drowned the vibrations of the second.
He found the breakfast-table laid beside an open
window looking upon the garden and the
mountains, and his cousin turning over the leaves of
a large book at the further end of the room.

"It is pleasant to find one's self so good a
judge of character," said Mr. Trefalden, advancing
with outstretched hand. "I felt sure you
would be true to time, Saxon —so sure, that I
had sent the eggs away to be poached —and here
they are!  Come, sit down.  I hope you're
hungry."

"Indeed I am," replied Saxon, making a
vigorous onslaught upon the loaf.

"You seem to have brought the mountain air
in with you," said Mr. Trefalden, with a half-
envious glance at his fresh young cheek and
breezy curls.  "It is a glorious morning for
walking."

"That it is; and I have been up to some of
the high pastures in search of one of our goats.
It was so clear at six o'clock that I saw the
Glärnisch quite plainly."

"What is the Glärnisch —a mountain?"

"Yes —a splendid mountain; the highest in
the Canton Glarus."

"What wine do you prefer, Saxon?"

"Oh, either, thank you.  I like the one as well
as the other."

Mr. Trefalden raised his eyes from the carte
des vins.

"What 'one' and what 'other' do you mean?"
asked he.

"The red and the white."

"You mean vin ordinaire?"

"Certainly.  Why not?"

Mr. Trefalden shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't drink vinegar myself," said he, " and
I should not choose to place it before you.  We
will try a bottle of our host's Château Margaux.
I suppose you like that?"

"I don't know," replied Saxon.  "I never
tasted it."

"Have you ever tasted champagne?"

"Never."

"Would you like to do so?"

"Indeed I don't care.  I like one thing just
as well as another.  These cutlets are capital."

Mr. Trefalden looked at his cousin with an
expression of mingled wonder and compassion;

"My dear boy," said he, "what have you
done, that you should only like one thing as well
as another?"

Saxon looked puzzled.

"It is a shocking defect either of constitution
or education," continued Mr. Trefalden, gravely.
"You must try to get over it.  Don't laugh.  I
am perfectly serious.  Here, taste this pâté, and
tell me if you like it only as well as the cutlets."

Saxon tasted it, and made a wry face.

"What is it made of?" said he.  " What are
those nasty black things in it?"

"It is a pâté de foie gras," replied Mr. Trefalden,
pathetically, " and those nasty black things are
truffles —the greatest delicacies imaginable."

Saxon laughed heartily, poured some claret
into a tumbler, and put out his hand for the
water-bottle.