"It is nearly four years since an English gentleman and his daughter visited Chamouni, and my father was their guide. Mr. Wyndham was a gentleman of refined manners; a Christian man, loving God, and speaking of that love with the earnestness of one who wishes others to love Him also. His daughter Alice, a frail, gentle girl, was one of those beings that seem lent, not given; the last of a large family, and herself not strong. Her father brought her to Lausanne, hoping that pure air and change of scene would restore and invigorate her. I hardly know why, but certain it is that my father was never so much interested in travellers before; while from the first it seemed to me that I could never do enough for the gentle girl, who never failed to inspire me with the love of something beyond what I knew. It was not a tangible idea, and when I tried to reach it I could not. Often in going up the mountain we would stop and rest on some shelf of the rock, while Alice would take her Bible from her pocket, and read the beautiful descriptions of the majesty and glory of the mountain heights, their grandeur and splendor, and then of the great God, creator and ruler of the universe, and kneeling in the cleft of the rock, she would commit herself to him with such a sweet, childlike confidence, I used to weep without knowing what I was weeping for, wishing and longing that I could understand for myself. Whenever she read, and especially when she prayed, my father would listen attentively, taking care when we went home to say nothing about it. [Illustration] "I remember one day we had been to 'Le Jardin,' a little spot of green at the foot of the grand Jarasse, framed in with eternal snows, but itself covered with Alpine plants and flowers, and yielding herbage sufficient to tempt the herdsmen to drive their cattle across the Mer de Glace. Her father and mine had gone a little out of the path, leaving me in charge and Alice to rest. Seeing some bright flowers of a peculiar species I stopped to gather them, and when I returned Alice was reading. It was not of Christ's power, glory and majesty, but of his love, the tenderness he felt for us, of his life, and last of all, of his death. I had never heard the story before, and it took entire possession of my spirit. Going down the mountain I was continually asking myself, 'What shall I render to him for all he has suffered on my account? and what for the blessings he has given me?' Thinking of his buffetings, scoffs and scourging, I could hardly keep the tears. My father observing this, and supposing that I was weary or had hurt myself, was kinder than usual; but when I told him of the little book and what Alice had told me of the love of Jesus, he grew angry and said that the next time they needed a guide I should stay at home. 'I have listened once or twice,' he said, 'because my living depends upon my politeness to strangers; but when it comes to turning the heads of my children it is quite another thing.'