'Why shouldn't she have told me so, then?'

'She must explain that herself. _I_ cannot account for that. It is very extraordinary.'

'But how do you know so well about me, sir--if you don't mind saying?'

'Oh! I am an old friend of the family. I knew your father better than your uncle, though. Your uncle is not over-friendly, you see.'

'I am sorry for that.'

'No occasion at all. I suppose he doesn't like me. I fancy, being a Methodist--'

'My uncle is not a Methodist, I a.s.sure you. He goes to the parish church regularly.'

'Oh! it's all one. I only meant to say that, being a man of somewhat peculiar notions, I supposed he did not approve of my profession. Your good people are just as ready as others, however, to call in the lawyer when they fancy their rights invaded. Ha! ha! But no one has a right to complain of another because he doesn't choose to like him. Besides, it brings grist to the mill. If everybody liked everybody, what would become of the lawsuits? And that would unsuit us--wouldn't it, Clara?'

'You know, papa dear, what mamma would say?'

'But she ain't here, you know.'

'But _I_ am, papa; and I don't like to hear you talk shop,' said Clara coaxingly.

'Very well; we won't then. But I was only explaining to Mr c.u.mbermede how I supposed it was that his uncle did not like me. There was no offence in that, I hope, Mr c.u.mbermede?'

'Certainly not,' I answered. 'I am the only offender. But I was innocent enough as far as intention goes. I came in drenched and cold, and the good people here amused themselves dressing me like a girl. It is quite time I were getting home now. Mr Forest will be in a way about me. So will Charley Osborne.'

'Oh yes,' said Mr Coningham, 'I remember hearing you were at school together somewhere in this quarter. But tell us all about it. Did you lose your way?'

I told them my story. Even Clara looked grave when I came to the incident of finding myself on the verge of the precipice.

'Thank G.o.d, my boy!' said Mr Coningham kindly. 'You have had a narrow escape. I lost myself once in the c.u.mberland hills, and hardly got off with my life. Here it is a chance you were ever seen again, alive or dead. I wonder you're not knocked up.'

I was, however, more so than I knew.

'How are you going to get home?' he asked.

'I don't know any way but walking,' I answered.

'Are you far from home?'

'I don't know. I dare say the people here will be able to tell me. But I think you said you were going down into the Grindelwald. I shall know where I am there. Perhaps you will let me walk with you. Horses can't go very fast along these roads.'

'You shall have my horse, my boy.'

'No. I couldn't think of that.'

'You must. I haven't been wandering all day like you. You can ride, I suppose?'

'Yes, pretty well.'

'Then you shall ride with Clara, and I'll walk with the guide. I shall go and see after the horses presently.'

It was indeed a delightful close to a dreadful day. We sat and chatted a while, and then Clara and I went out to look at the Jungfrau. She told me they had left her mother at Interlaken, and had been wandering about the Bernese Alps for nearly a week.

'I can't think what should have put it in papa's head,' she added; 'for he does not care much for scenery. I fancy he wants to make the most of poor me, and so takes me the grand tour. He wanted to come without mamma, but she said we were not to be trusted alone. She had to give in when we took to horseback, though.'

It was getting late, and Mr Coningham came out to find us.

'It is quite time we were going,' he said. 'In fact we are too late now. The horses are ready, and your clothes are dry, Mr c.u.mbermede. I have felt them all over.'

'How kind of you, sir!' I said.

'Nonsense! Why should any one want another to get his death of cold? If you are to keep alive, it's better to keep well as long as ever you can. Make haste, though, and change your clothes.'

I hurried away, followed by Clara's merry laugh at my clumsy gait. In a few moments I was ready. Mr Coningham had settled my bill for me.

Mother and daughter gave me a kind farewell, and I exhausted my German in vain attempts to let them know how grateful I was for their goodness. There was not much time, however, to spend even on grat.i.tude.

The sun was nearly down, and I could see Clara mounted and waiting for me before the window. I found Mr Coningham rather impatient.

'Come along, Mr c.u.mbermede; we must be off,' he said. 'Get up there.'

'You _have_ grown, though, after all,' said Clara. 'I thought it might be only the petticoats that made you look so tall.'

I got on the horse which the guide, a half-witted fellow from the next valley, was holding for me, and we set out. The guide walked beside my horse, and Mr Coningham beside Clara's. The road was level for a little way, but it soon turned up on the hill where I had been wandering, and went along the steep side of it.

'Will this do for a precipice, Clara?' said her father.

'Oh! dear no,' she answered; 'it's not worth the name. It actually slopes outward.'

'Before we got down to the next level stretch it began again to rain. A mist came on, and we could see but a little way before us. Through the mist came the sound of the bells of the cattle upon the hill. Our guide trudged carefully but boldly on. He seemed to know every step of the way. Clara was very cool, her father a little anxious, and very attentive to his daughter, who received his help with a never-failing merry grat.i.tude, making light of all annoyances. At length we came down upon the better road, and travelled on with more comfort.

'Look, Clara!' I said, 'will that do?'

'What is it?' she asked, turning her head in the direction in which I pointed.

On our right, through the veil, half of rain, half of gauzy mist, which filled the air, arose a precipice indeed--the whole bulk it was of the Eiger mountain, which the mist brought so near that it seemed literally to overhang the road. Clara looked up for a moment, but betrayed no sign of awe.

'Yes, I think that will do,' she said.

'Though you are only at the foot of it?' I suggested.

'Yes, though I am only at the foot of it,' she repeated.

'What does it remind you of?' I asked.

'Nothing. I never saw anything it could remind me of,' she answered.

'Nor read anything?'

'Not that I remember.'