It was explained, the serene calm of the earnest blue eyes:  Erwald was a Christian.

Early in the morning our guide made his appearance.  His countenance sweet and pleasing as it was the night previous.  He was accompanied by a little woman in a black gown and bodice, with a high cap and the whitest of kerchiefs—­a mild sweet-faced woman, whom we knew at once as his mother.

“You’ll tell Vesta mother thinks of her all the time, and prays the Father every hour to make her well again.”

On my asking if she was not afraid to have her son go on so dangerous a journey, she answered: 

“Our Father will take care of him and bring him back to us.”

The simple faith of the good woman struck me as greatly to be desired.  With all her simplicity she had the true Wisdom:  and her good motherly face went with me long after I left Erwald in Chamouni.

A few miles from Geneva, we entered Savoy.  Here the scenery of the Alps began to open before us.  On the right the Arve was seen winding through a cultivated and luxuriant valley; on both sides, hills and rooks rose to a considerable elevation, and behind, the mountains of the Jura range closed in grandeur the delightful view.  We passed through a succession of peaceful villages, and at length reached by a long avenue of elms the little town of Bonneville on the Arve.  The town is embosomed in the mountains, and watered by the river.  It has a fine old bridge over the river from which the country is viewed to great, advantage.  On the right the mole is elegantly formed, and terminates in a peak, a complete contrast to Mont Brezon on the left, wild and savage in its aspect, and little more than a bare and rugged rock with occasional pitches of verdure.

[Illustration]

From Bonneville the road passes over the bridge to the foot of the mole, and traverses a lovely valley, hemmed in by lofty mountains, and rich in scenes of pastoral beauty.  The road is lined on each side with walnut-trees, which afford a grateful shade.  Passing the village of Sigony, Erwald pointed to the remains of an old convent far up the mountain, whose inmates were wont to welcome the traveller, when these valleys, destitute of good roads and inns, were explored with difficulty and with danger.

From this place the mountains closed upon us; rocks began to overhang the road, and the Arve was rather heard than seen.  At length we crossed a romantic looking bridge and entered the little town of Cluse, enclosed on both sides by rocky ramparts, and sheltered equally from sunbeams and from storms.  Following the various windings of the valley, the Arve seemed to spread itself into a series of lakes, each presenting its own peculiar loveliness and majesty.  The sides of the mountains were occasionally bare and rugged, but for the most part they were clothed with forests of fir; while above, pointed summits and fantastic crags everywhere met the eye, and filled the beholder with admiration and awe.