“Has he been long ill?” I asked.

“It is about three months now,” and Franz drew up a little stand, and lifted the Bible that had been lying open on the bed to the table.

“Annette spoke of reading him to sleep; was this the book?” I questioned.

“Father has come to like this since he was sick; he don’t care for any other.”

“Then he has not always liked it?”

“No, sir.”

“May I know, Franz, when you first learned to love this book?”

He looked up with such a shy, timid look, and still with the same frankness that had characterized him during the day.  Just then Annette entered, whispered to Franz, and both went out.  In a moment Franz returned.

“Annette was afraid it would not do; it is the best we have, and I know you must be hungry.”

White bread, and strawberries, and goat’s milk; while the bottle of sour wine I had seen in the morning graced the table.  I had not expected such a tempting meal, and I was hungry, as Franz said.  Taking his seat Franz raised his eyes to mine.  There was no mistaking its upward, grateful glance.  Bowing our heads, we asked a blessing, and then picking up the broken thread, Franz went on to tell me of himself.

Franz’s Story.

“It is nearly four years since an English gentleman and his daughter visited Chamouni, and my father was their guide.  Mr. Wyndham was a gentleman of refined manners; a Christian man, loving God, and speaking of that love with the earnestness of one who wishes others to love Him also.  His daughter Alice, a frail, gentle girl, was one of those beings that seem lent, not given; the last of a large family, and herself not strong.  Her father brought her to Lausanne, hoping that pure air and change of scene would restore and invigorate her.  I hardly know why, but certain it is that my father was never so much interested in travellers before; while from the first it seemed to me that I could never do enough for the gentle girl, who never failed to inspire me with the love of something beyond what I knew.  It was not a tangible idea, and when I tried to reach it I could not.  Often in going up the mountain we would stop and rest on some shelf of the rock, while Alice would take her Bible from her pocket, and read the beautiful descriptions of the majesty and glory of the mountain heights, their grandeur and splendor, and then of the great God, creator and ruler of the universe, and kneeling in the cleft of the rock, she would commit herself to him with such a sweet, childlike confidence, I used to weep without knowing what I was weeping for, wishing and longing that I could understand for myself.  Whenever she read, and especially when she prayed, my father would listen attentively, taking care when we went home to say nothing about it.

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