At the sound of the evening bells, the lackey and the postilion lifted their hats and the waiting-maid folded her hands. Irma also folded her hands, but did not pray. She thought to herself: The sound of the bells is pleasant enough, if one can listen to them from without, and then return to the happy world; but to those who are within the convent, it is a daily death-knell; for life such as theirs, is death. Irma's mood was not in sympathy with that of her friend, and she did her best to feel as befitted the occasion. While they were getting the boat ready, she overheard the lackey speaking with another servant whose face she remembered to have seen at court. She heard the court lackey saying: "My master's been here for some days and has been waiting for something; I don't know what." Irma would have liked to ask with whom he had come, but a sudden fear overpowered her and she was unable to speak a word. Accompanied by the waiting-maid, she stepped into the boat. An old boatman and his daughter rowed the rudderless skiff. The waters of the lake were deep and dark. The sun was setting, and the shadows of the western mountains were reflected in dark outlines on the hills along the shore. The fresh-fallen snow lay on the glaciers, whose white crests contrasted sharply with the wooded hills of the foreground and the clear blue sky. Below, all was as silent and dusky as though they were sailing into the realm of shadows. "Is this your daughter?" asked Irma, addressing the old boatman. He nodded a glad assent, delighted to find her conversant with the dialect of that portion of the country. Her intercourse with Walpurga had kept her in practice. "Yes," replied the boatman, "and she'd like to go into service with some good family. She can sew well and--" "Remain with your father; that's the best thing you can do," said Irma to the girl. They rowed on in silence. "How deep is the lake here?" inquired Irma. "Sixty fathoms, at least." Irma's hand played with the water, and she was pleased with the thought that human beings could so easily and boldly move along over a threatening, watery grave. She leaned a little way over the side of the boat, and the boatman called out: "Take care, miss!" "I can swim," replied Irma, splashing the waves. "That's all very well," said the old man, laughing. "They can all swim until they have to, and then all's over; and if they happen to have clothes hanging to them, mighty few can swim." "You're right there. Our gay frippery would drag us down." The old man did not understand her and made no reply. She was quite excited and asked: "Have many persons been drowned in this lake?" "Very few; but just below us, there's the body of a young man, twenty-one years old." "How was he lost?" "They say he'd been drinking too freely, but I think that he had a sweetheart in the convent over there. It's a good thing she don't know of it." Irma looked down into the waves, while the old man continued: