“Ach! no!” he replied; “but I vill puild a hotel shoost like dis dare.”

“Is that a part of your revenge?” I asked, with a laugh.

“Ah! so! a bart.”

I felt relieved; a revenge so practical did not seem very malicious or idiotic.  After a pause he puffed contemplatively at his pipe, and then said, “I dell you somedings of dot story now.”

He began.  I should like to tell it in his own particular English, mixed with American slang, but it would not convey the simplicity of the narrator.  He was the son of a large family who had lived for centuries in one of the highest villages in the Bernese Oberland.  He attained his size and strength early, but with a singular distaste to use them in the rough regular work on the farm, although he was a great climber and mountaineer, and, what was at first overlooked as mere boyish fancy, had an insatiable love and curious knowledge of plants and flowers.  He knew the haunts of Edelweiss, Alpine rose, and blue gentian, and had brought home rare and unknown blossoms from under the icy lips of glaciers.  But as he did this when his time was supposed to be occupied in looking after the cows in the higher pastures and making cheeses, there was trouble in that hard-working, practical family.  A giant with the tastes and disposition of a schoolgirl was an anomaly in a Swiss village.  Unfortunately again, he was not studious; his record in the village school had been on a par with his manual work, and the family had not even the consolation of believing that they were fostering a genius.  In a community where practical industry was the highest virtue, it was not strange, perhaps, that he was called “lazy” and “shiftless;” no one knew the long climbs and tireless vigils he had undergone in remote solitudes in quest of his favorites, or, knowing, forgave him for it.  Abstemious, frugal, and patient as he was, even the crusts of his father’s table were given him grudgingly.  He often went hungry rather than ask the bread he had failed to earn.  How his great frame was nurtured in those days he never knew; perhaps the giant mountains recognized some kin in him and fed and strengthened him after their own fashion.  Even his gentleness was confounded with cowardice.  “Dot vos de hardtest,” he said simply; “it is not goot to be opligit to half crush your brudder, ven he would make a laugh of you to your sweetheart.”  The end came sooner than he expected, and, oddly enough, through this sweetheart.  “Gottlieb,” she said to him one day, “the English Fremde who stayed here last night met me when I was carrying some of those beautiful flowers you gave me.  He asked me where they were to be found, and I told him only you knew.  He wants to see you; go to him.  It may be luck to you.”  Rutli went.  The stranger, an English Alpine climber of scientific tastes, talked with him for an hour.  At the end of that time, to everybody’s astonishment, he engaged this hopeless idler as his personal guide