I started with surprise. It was the first time I had ever heard the word with reference to myself, and a sense of shame, almost to sickness, came over me as I stood there. “Jasper is my child; he is all that a son could be to his mother,” cried Polly, clasping me in her arms, and kissing my forehead; and I felt as if my very heart was bursting. “Between us there is no question of burden or independence.” “We live in an age of fine sentiments and harsh actions,” said the Count. “I have seen M. de Robespierre shed tears over a dead canary, and I believe that he could control his feelings admirably on the Place de Grève. Jasper, I see that we must finish this conversation when we are alone together. And now to dinner.” He assumed a half air of gayety as he said this; but it was unavailing as a means of rallying my poor mother, whose tearful eyes and trembling lips told how sadly dispirited she felt at heart. I had heard much from my mother about the charms of the Count's conversation, his brilliant tone, and his powers of fascination. It had been a favorite theme with her to dilate upon his wondrous agreeability, and the vast range of his acquaintance with popular events and topics. She had always spoken of him, too, as one of buoyant spirits, and even boyish light-heartedness. She had even told me that he would be my companion, like one of my own age. With what disappointment, then, did I find him the very reverse of all this! All his views of life savored of bitterness and scorn; all his opinions were tinged with scepticism and distrust; he sneered at the great world and its vanities, but even these he seemed to hold in greater estimation than the humble tranquillity of our remote village. I have him before me this instant as he leaned out of the window and looked down the valley towards the Splugen Alps. The sun was setting, and only the tops of the very highest glaciers were now touched with its glory; their peaks shone like burnished gold in the sea of sky, azure and cloudless. The rest of the landscape was softened down into various degrees of shade, but all sufficiently distinct to display the wild and fanciful outlines of cliff and crag, and the zigzag course by which the young Rhine forced its passage through the rocky gorge. Never had the scene looked in greater beauty,--never had every effect of light and shadow been more happily distributed; and I watched him with eagerness as he gazed out upon a picture which nothing in all Europe can surpass. His countenance for a while remained calm, cold, and unmoved; but at last he broke silence and said: “This it was, then, that gave that dark coloring to all your letters to me, Polly; and I half forgive you as I look at it. Gloom and barbarism were never more closely united.” “Oh, Emile, you surely see something else in this grand picture?” cried she, in a deprecating voice.