"I believe you were right, after all, Jim. There isn't much to see here. Let's go on to-morrow." It was a tribute to his powers of prediction. "Very well," he answered. "As a matter of fact, I should like to go back to the hotel this minute and lie down." She would not hear of that. "Oh, no!" she protested. "There is the Zwingli Museum, the Hohe Promenade, and the National Museum to see. We mustn't miss them, you know. What would Aunt Ethel say?" Nor could she permit him to miss them. She seemed to thrive as much upon the labour as if she had been shopping as she used to shop in her unmarried days, and she dragged him after her, a husband more weary than he had often been in his pilgrimages through the Great Desert. "To-morrow," he yawned, as he flung himself down to sleep, eight hours later, "we shall start for some place where we can rest and see a few real Alps. We'll go to the Engadine." Muriel was seated at some distance from the bed. She was stooping to loosen her boots, and her hair fell over her face and hid it. "Don't let's go there," she said. "Let's go to Innsbruck." "Innsbruck? That's in Austria, isn't it?" "Is it? Well, what if it is, Jim?" "I thought you wanted to see Switzerland." "We've seen it, haven't we?" "Only a slice of it; and it must be a long and tiresome ride to Innsbruck." Muriel dropped one boot and then the other and carried them outside the door. "Anyhow," she said, returning, "we have seen enough of Switzerland to know what it's like, Jim. I'm awfully tired of it." She came to the bed and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Do you mind, dear?" she added. "Oh, no," he sighed. "I suppose not. Only let's go to sleep now: I am about done up." Muriel said nothing to that, but the next morning she assumed the plan to be adopted, and they went to Innsbruck. They went by the way that Franz von Klausen had described to her: by the narrow, mountain-guarded Waldersee, the Castle Lichtenstein, the ruins of Graephang and, on the great rock that rises over Berschia, the pilgrim-church of St. Georgen. Jim had tipped the guard to secure, at least for a time, the privacy of their compartment, and the guard, a little fellow with flaring moustaches and a uniform that was almost the uniform of an officer, saluted gravely and promised seclusion. Thus, for some hours, they had the place to themselves, but the train gradually filled, and at last there entered a young Austrian merchant, who insisted upon giving them a sense of his knowledge of English and American literature. "All Austrians of culture read your Irving," he said; "also your Harte and Twain and Do-_nel_li." "Our what?" asked Jim. "Please?" "I didn't catch that last name." "Donelli--Ignatius Donelli." "Oh! Ignatius Donnelly--yes." "Indeed, yes, sir; and you will find few that do not by the heart know of Shakespeare: 'Friends, Romans, Countrymen, come listen to me!'"