The next day, Stephan began his day’s work with a determination to look on the bright side of his troubles.  His goats, however, had in some way become a greater charge than he had ever felt them before.  He feared to lose sight of one for an instant; so, what with racing after the stragglers and searching, as was now his habit, for the lost one, he was so tired and worn out by noonday, that instead of eating his dinner, he threw himself on the ground and cried bitterly.  The goats sniffed round and round him, as if puzzled at the unwonted sounds.  He often sang and whistled as he sat among them carving some rough semblance of animals with his pocket-knife, but these unmusical sounds were new to them and seemed to make them uneasy.  A sudden pause in the monotonous tinkle of the little bells caused Stephan to raise his head, and he encountered the amused gaze of two gentlemen in the Bavarian hunting costume of coarse gray cloth and green facings; thick boots studded with huge nails and clamps to prevent slipping in the dangerous ascent after game; high-crowned hats, with little tufts of chamois beard as decoration and proof of former success; the younger of the two having, in addition, a bunch of pink Alpen-rose showing he must have climbed high up the mountains.

“What sort of music do you call that?” asked the latter, resting his gun-stock on the ground.  “If you howl in that way, there will be no use hunting in your neighborhood for a month; you would frighten the tamest game over the frontier in five minutes.  A little more of this music and there wont be a chamois for miles round.  But what’s the matter?  Have you had a fight with your goats and got the worst of it?  How many horns have been run through your body, and where are the wounds?”

Stephan had fancied that his goats were his only auditors, so felt thoroughly ashamed of himself, but jumping up, he answered with some spirit: 

“I have not any wounds, sir, and should never cry if I had.  I lost a goat some days ago and now my mother has to pay for it by giving up the only valuable thing she has in the world.”

“That can’t be yourself, then,” said the young man, laughing; “for such a careless little chap would not be of much value, I should think.  But tell us the story.  When did you lose it?”

After listening to Stephan’s account, the hunters spoke apart with each other for some minutes, and then the young one took out his purse and gave the astonished boy six florins—­about ten English shillings.

“There, you can get a very good goat for that, but remember, no more howling, and if you ever find your own again, I shall expect you to repay me this money.”

“That I will, indeed, gentlemen, and I thank you heartily,” said the boy, so earnestly that both laughed, as, nodding him an adieu, they began descending the mountain, and were soon lost among the trees.

Stephan threw his hat into the air with a joyous cheer, and the echoes repeated his gleeful shout.