I obeyed; and thus, after an interval of just
twenty years, returned to Clarens.

I found my excellent friend fatter than I
could have imagined. Friends so often omit to
mention the personal changes that are taking
place in them, and photographs were at this
time unknown. His hair was curiously streaked
with white, as if he had dyed it with an
unsteady hand, but there was the same kind
beaming face, and the grasp of his hand was cordial,
almost to pain. He had loved my mother,
and our first talk was all of her. Insensibly we
glided into other topics—old scenes and
adventures—until, at last, I inquired for "the
Roses."

"They are here—all here," he answered.
Rose Sebille, Rose Fonnereau, and—and Rose
Grahame; but," he added, gravely, "we will
visit her last."

As we sat that evening in the familiar
balcony, looking on the blue lake, and glancing
every instant towards a châlet half buried in
trees and flowers, and fraught with so many a
sweet and sacred recollection, I learned the
story of the first of my three bright roses, Rose
Fonnereau.

We could discern, in the twilight, a grand
old château frowning down upon us from an
adjacent hill, though, to be literally correct, it
presently began to shine and glisten in the
rising moonlight, as only a Swiss chateau can.
I knew it well, of course—knew its feudal
history, its secret crypts, its torture-tower, its
dungeons. It had been, in my time, the paradise
of bats and boys—its dark recesses offering
splendid facilities for hide-and-seek. I knew
the horrible post, scarred and scorched, to
which victims, in old times, were bound, while
hot coals were applied to their feet. Happier
times succeeding, the torture-chamber had
become our chief playroom, while the lower
prisons discharged the genial office of wine-
cellars.

Ten years before, Rose Fonnereau had become
the wife of the young heir of this place. The
rejoicings had lasted three days—garlands,
flags, coloured lamps, and fireworks turning the
little village into a perfect fair. There was
music and dancing for the young and agile,
wine and other comforts for the poor, the
inimitable cannon, whose voice is never mute in
Switzerland upon the slightest disturbance;
and thus was Rose Fonnereau, the beautiful
and beloved, conducted to her husband's stately
home.

Rose became the idol of the house. She was
like a sunbeam that had found its way within
those sombre walls to warm and cheer, and
not one escaped its influence. Her husband
had sole charge of the estate, his father, though
living, being in feeble health. But once every
year he went alone upon a rambling excursion
on the Alps.

Five years since, he took his knapsack and
alpenstock, and departed on his annual march,
his Rose accompanying him some distance
along the road, and returning alone in tears, for
she always dreaded those lonely wanderings of
his. He had promised to write continually,
and requested that his letters should be
addressed to a distant village across the mountains
he intended to explore.

Rose never beheld him more. She know not
if he wandered, lost and starved to death upon
the snow, or if his death was quick and
unexpected, falling from some terrific peak, or
whelmed in an avalanche, or, worse fate,
murdered by some unknown hand. All that love and
sorrow could devise was put in action, and, for
months, the mountain-paths and plateaux were
followed and searched; but without success.
Once only was he heard of. He had hired a
guide to take him to a village, situated beyond a
dangerous and difficult pass—the village to
which his letters were to be directed.

Four years later some human remains were
found, by shepherds or hunters, in the
neighbourhood of the pass, but some distance from
the ordinary road, and without a shred or relic
of any kind to identify the victim, unless a
slight peculiarity in the jaw could be relied
upon as proof that it was indeed Rose's husband,
who had been injured in his youth by the
kick of a horse in the face. At all events, it
convinced her, and the remains were laid
reverently to rest in the cemetery.

"I also," said the doctor, "believe it to be
him. The guide with whom he ascended that
fatal path was suspected, and questioned, and,
though nothing was elicited to incriminate him,
he was for a long time under surveillance.
He was an ill-looking fellow, and bore the
worst character in the village. The man's
account was that the traveller had dismissed
him when actually within sight of the village
to which he was proceeding, and was last seen
descending the path leading thither. It was,
however, a significant fact that his watch,
chain, rings, and money, as well as all the more
perishable part of his equipment, had disappeared,
when the remains were found. His
father expired on the day following the interment
of his son's remains, and the mother is,
I fear, dying. As for Rose, she is mistress of
the castle, and guardian to her boy, beloved by
all around her. You shall see her to-day."

After this story, a perfectly true one, we sat
for a little time in silence, watching the fatal
mountain and the grim old château, with its
turrets for the moment kissed into silver by the
cold bright moon. Then the doctor, who was
always depressed by the reminiscence he had
just recounted, rose hurriedly, and, with an
effort to be gay, wished me good night and
pleasant dreams.

My dreams were not pleasant. They hovered
incessantly between a death-struggle on the
mountains and a white face looking out into
the moonlight, keeping, from habit, a dreary
watch, though hope was dead.

Next morning, at breakfast, a note was
handed to the doctor, who laughed, and passed
it to me.

"Come, Frank, your walk among the Roses