Mary Ashburton made no answer.  She had turned away to hide her tears.  Flemming wondered, that Berkley could say she was not beautiful.  Still he was rather pleased than offended at it.  He felt at that moment how sweet a thing it would be to possess one, who should seem beautiful to him alone, and yet to him be more beautiful than all the world beside!  How bright the world became to him at that thought!  It was like one of those paintings in which all the light streams from the face of the Virgin.  O, there is nothing holier in this life of ours, than the first consciousness of love,—­the first fluttering of its silken wings; the first rising sound and breath of thatwind, which is so soon to sweep through the soul, to purify or to destroy!

Old histories tell us, that the great Emperor Charlemagne stamped his edicts with the hilt of his sword.  The greater Emperor, Death, stamps his with the blade; and they are signed and executed with the same stroke.  Flemming received that night a letter from Heidelberg, which told him, that Emma of Ilmenau was dead.  The fate of this poor girl affected him deeply; and he said in his heart;

“Father in Heaven!  Why was the lot of this weak and erring child so hard!  What had she done, to be so tempted in her weakness, and perish?  Why didst thou suffer her gentle affections to lead her thus astray?”

And, through the silence of the awful midnight, the voice of an avalanche answered from the distant mountains, and seemed to say;

“Peace! peace!  Why dost thou question God’s providence!”

CHAPTER VII.  TAKE CARE!

Fair is the valley of Lauterbrunnen with its green meadows and overhanging cliffs.  The ruined castle of Unspunnen stands like an armed warder at the gate of the enchanted land.  In calm serenity the snowy mountains rise beyond.  Fairer than the Rock of Balmarusa, you frowning precipice looks down upon us; and, from the topmost cliff, the white pennon of the Brook of Dust shimmers and waves in the sunny air!

It was a bright, beautiful morning after nightrain.  Every dewdrop and raindrop had a whole heaven within it; and so had the heart of Paul Flemming, as, with Mrs. Ashburton and her dark-eyed daughter, he drove up the Valley of Lauter-brunnen,—­the Valley of Fountains-Only.

“How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this morning!” exclaimed he, looking at Mary Ashburton.

She thought he meant the mountain, and assented.  But he meant her likewise.

“And the mountains, beyond,” he continued; “the Monk and the Silver-horn, the Wetter-horn the Schreck-horn, and the Schwarz-horn, all those sublime apostles of Nature, whose sermons are avalanches!  Did you ever behold anything more grand!”