“Oh, she’s one of Herr Hausberger’s cow-girls,” the _sennerin_ answered, with a little shake of her saucy head. “But you needn’t ask _her_; she’s a great deal too shy; she won’t give you a chance; she never sings before strangers.” “That’s a pity,” Will replied, lightly, not much thinking what he said; “for if she sings better than you, worthy friend, she must be well worth hearing.” The _sennerin_ looked down again. Her ruddy cheek glowed ruddier. Such praise from such lips discomposed her serenity. Will glanced at his watch. “We must be going, Florian,” he said. “Half-past twelve already! I’ve no coppers in my pocket. Have you anything you can offer this lady gay for her agreeable entertainment?” Florian pulled out his purse, and took from it gingerly a well-worn twenty-kreuzer piece—one of those flimsy silvered shams which the Austrian Government in its paternal stinginess imposes as money upon its faithful lieges. The _sennerin_ accepted it with a profusion of thanks, and smothered the generous donor’s hand with unstinted kisses. So much happiness may a man diffuse in this world of woe with a fourpenny bit, bestowed in due season! But Florian mistook that customary symbol of thanks on the alp-girl’s part for an expression of her most heart-felt personal consideration; and not to be outdone when it came to idyllic courtship, he lifted her hand in return to his own gracious lips and kissed it gallantly. Will raised his hat and smiled, without commenting on this misconception, and with a cheery “Auf wiedersehen!” they went on their way rejoicing once more up the slopes of the mountain. CHAPTER IV ENTER LINNET Lunch on the summit was delicious that day, and the view was glorious. But when they returned in the evening to the inn at St Valentin—that was the name of their village—and described to Andreas Hausberger how an alp-girl had sung for them in a mountain hut, the _wirth_ listened to the description with a deprecatory smile, and then said with a little shrug: “Ah, that was Philippina; she can’t do very much. Her high notes are too shrill. You should just hear Linnet!” “Is Linnet such a songstress then?” Florian cried, with that dubious smile of his. The _wirth_ looked grave. “She can _sing_,” he said, pointedly. His dignity was hurt by the young man’s half-sceptical, half-bantering tone. And your Tyroler is above all things conservative of his dignity. These repeated commendations of this unknown Linnet, however, with her quaintly pretty un-German-sounding name, piqued the two Englishmen’s curiosity in no small degree as to her personality and powers, so that when the _wirth_ next morning announced after breakfast, with a self-satisfied smile, “Linnet’s coming down to-day,” Florian and Will looked across at each other with one accord, and exclaimed in unison, “Ah, now then, we shall see her!”