“In a glade, Where the sun harbours; and one side of it Listens to bees, another to a brook. Lovers, that have just parted for the night, Dream of such spots when they have said their prayers; Or some tired parent, holding by the hand A child, and walking toward the setting sun.” In the stillness of the night, they could hear the “rushing of the arrowy Rhone.” From a neighbouring eminence could be seen the transparent Lake of Geneva, reflecting the deep blue heaven above. Mountains, in all fantastic forms, enclosed them round; now draped in heavy masses of sombre clouds, and now half revealed through sun-lighted vapour, like a veil of gold. The flowing silver of little waterfalls gleamed among the dark rocks. Grape-vines hung their rich festoons by the roadside, and the beautiful barberry bush embroidered their leaves with its scarlet clusters. They lived under the same roof with a guileless good old man, and with an innocent maiden, just merging into beautiful womanhood; and more than all, they were both under the influence of that great inspirer, Love. Rosabella was so uniformly kind to both, that Pierre could never relinquish the hope that constant devotedness might in time win her affections for himself. Florien, having a more cheerful character, and more reliance on his own fascinations, was merely anxious that the lovely maiden should prefer his workmanship, as decidedly as she did his person and manners. Under this powerful stimulus, in addition to the ambition excited by the old watch-maker’s proposal, the competition between them was active and incessant. But the groundwork of their characters was so good, that all little heart-burnings of envy or jealousy were quickly checked by the predominance of generous and kindly sentiments. One evening, Rosabella was reading to her grandfather a description of an albino squirrel. The pure white animal, with pink eyes and a feathery tail, pleased her fancy extremely, and she expressed a strong desire to see one. Pierre said nothing; but not long after, as they sat eating grapes after dinner, a white squirrel leaped on the table, frisked from shoulder to shoulder, and at last sat up with a grape in its paws. Rosabella uttered an exclamation of delight. “Is it alive?” she said. “Do you not see that it is?” rejoined Pierre. “Call the dog, and see what he thinks about it.” “We have so many things here, which are alive and yet not alive,” she replied, smiling.