That also was agreed to, the distance being too great for Mrs. Christmas to walk. And so Annie Brunel and Grete Halm set out upon the winding path, or rather track, which runs along the shore of the beautiful Titi See—here skirting the edge of the rocky promontories which jut out into the still blue lake, there cutting through the dense coppices lying in the sunshine along the foot of the hills, or again passing some deep-roofed and sleepy farmhouse, with its small stone chapel standing in the yard. Grete reverentially crossed herself every time they passed one of these numerous private chapels; and her companion, peeping in through the wooden bars, generally saw within the sanctuary a large framed lithograph of the Virgin Mary in red and blue, with a vast number of little gilt trinkets and other pious offerings lying on the altar. Some of these chapels had forms within capable of accommodating a congregation of from twelve to twenty persons. One or two people had built no chapel at all, but had hollowed out a niche in the wall surrounding their garden, and had placed therein a wooden crucifix, more or less painted, exhibiting the details of the Crucifixion with mediæval exactitude. And Grete, being a good girl, crossed herself as she saw these humble memorials of a devout faith. "Why did you send Hermann away, Grete?" said Annie Brunel, as they walked along. "Because, mademoiselle, I wished him to know that I could do without him," said Grete Halm. "You are very fond of him, are you not?" "Yes, mademoiselle, but——" "And he of you?" "He is very fond of me, I know," said Grete, simply. "I don’t wonder at it; but have you ever asked yourself why he is fond of you?" "Why, mademoiselle? Because—because I am a girl and he is a man, and he wants to be married." Annie Brunel laughed; it was the first smile her companion had seen on her face for some days. "But suppose he did not want to be married—suppose he could not be married to you—would he be fond of you? Or suppose you knew, Grete, that he was to marry some one else, what would you do?" "I should do nothing, mademoiselle; I should be miserable." "You would not cease to love him?" "If I could, yes; if not,——" "If not, you would only be miserable." The tone in which the words were uttered caused Grete to look up suddenly in her companion’s face. She saw nothing there but the inwardly-reflecting eyes, the beautiful, pale, dark complexion, and the placid sweetness of the unkissed lips. "In England, Grete, I am an actress. They say that an actress must never reflect, that she lives for immediate gratification, that she educates impulses, and that she cannot pause, and regard her position, and criticise herself. If I cease to feel any pleasure in immediate gratifications, if I feel ill at ease and dissatisfied with myself, and fancy that the stage would no longer give me any pleasure—must I cease to be an actress?" "Is mademoiselle in earnest?"