But, alas, how is humanity constituted! The next morning, Freddy, after a final look at himself in a tall mirror, remarked to the vision: “Yes, that’s very tony. Now, I’ll take a walk on the Avenue, so as to give the girls a treat.” As for Frances, after an hour’s rapid walk with Champney in the crisp, sunny air, she came down to the breakfast-table, and said: “Yes, steward, I’ll begin with fruit and oatmeal, and then I’ll have chocolate, and beefsteak, and an omelette, and fried potatoes, and hot rolls, and marmalade. Oh! And, steward, do you have griddle cakes?” Thus, despite their mutual intentions, the thought of each other lessened daily, till even the inevitable correspondence lost interest and flagged. Frances discovered that London, Paris, and the Riviera offered greater attractions than Freddy’s witless and vapid “chronicle of small beer;” while Freddy found that listening to the conversation of a girl, present, was a far better way of spending time than reading the letters of a girl, absent. Finally, Frances found a letter at the bankers at Berne which ended the correspondence,—a letter over which she laughed so heartily that Champney looked up from his own bundle of mail and asked, “What is it that’s so funny?” “Freddy’s engaged to Kitty Maxwell,” replied Frances. “I don’t think you ought to be so gleeful at other people’s misfortunes,” reproved Champney, laughing himself, however, while speaking, as if he, too, saw something humorous in the announcement. “I—I wasn’t—I was laughing at something else,” Frances told him. “What?” asked Champney. “A secret,” replied Frances, blushing a little, even while laughing. “Not from me?” urged Champney. “Yes; I sha’n’t even tell you. Not a person in the world will ever know it, and I’m very glad,” asserted Frances. “I suspect I know it already,” suggested Champney. “I am a great hand at finding out secrets. I have a patent method.” “What is that?” asked Frances. “That, too, is a secret,” laughed Champney. ⁂ When next we meet any of our characters, they—or at least two of them—are toiling up a steep mountain path in the Bavarian Tyrol. Frances leads, for the way is narrow, and Champney follows. Conversation is at a marked discount; but whether this is due to the natural incompatibility of the two, or merely to the exertion of the climb, is unknown to history. “She gets lovelier every day,” finally remarked Champney. Frances stopped, and turned. “What did you say?” she asked. “I didn’t speak,” answered Champney. “I’m sure you did,” said Frances. “No,” denied Champney, “I was merely thinking.” “You did say something, I’m sure,” responded Frances, turning, and resuming the climb. Another five minutes brought them to the top of a little plateau set in between two ranges of mountains, and dividing two lakes, famous the world over. Even after the couple reached their destination, however, they stood silent for a minute. Then Frances exclaimed,—