“I see by the smile on your countenance,” he continued, “that it is no day-incubus.”

“You are right,” replied Flemming.  “It was a pleasant dream, which you have put to flight.”

“And I am glad to see, that you have also put to flight the gloomy thoughts which used to haunt you.  I like to see people cheerful and happy.  What is the use of giving way to sadness in this beautiful world?”

“Ah! this beautiful world!” said Flemming, with a smile.  “Indeed, I know not what to think of it.  Sometimes it is all gladness and sunshine, and Heaven itself lies not far off.  And then it changes suddenly; and is dark and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky.  In the lives of the saddestof us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it.  Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark.  Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.”

“And who says we don’t?” interrupted Berkley.  “Come, come!  Let us go to breakfast.  The morning air has given me a rude appetite.  I long to say grace over a fresh egg; and eat salt with my worst enemies; namely, the Cockneys at the hotel.  After breakfast you must give yourself up wholly to me.  I shall take you to the Grindelwald!”

“To-day, then, you do not breakfast like Diogenes, but consent to leave your tub.”

“Yes, for the pleasure of your company.  I shall also blow out the light in my lantern, having found you.”

“Thank you.”

The breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence.  Flemming watched the entrance of every guest; but she came not,—­the guest he most desired to see.

“And now for the Grindelwald!” said Berkley.

“Why such haste?  We have the whole day before us.  There is time enough.”

“Not a moment to loso, I assure you.  The carriage is at the door.”

They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen, and turned eastward among the mountains of the Grindelwald.  There they passed the day; half-frozen by the icy breath of the Great Glacier, upon whose surface stand pyramids and blocks of ice, like the tombstones of a cemetery.  It was a weary day to Flemming.  He wished himself at Interlachen; and was glad when, towards evening, he saw once more the cone-roofed towers of the cloister rising above the walnut trees.

That evening is written in red letters in his history.  It gave him another revelation of thebeauty and excellence of the female character and intellect; not wholly new to him, yet now renewed and fortified.  It was from the lips of Mary Ashburton, that the revelation came.  Her form arose, like a tremulous evening star, in the firmament of his soul.  He conversed with her; and with her alone; and knew not when to