And standing on the balcony of the _salon_, facing all the grand mountains, with the green lake beneath, it truly seemed a spot made for brides and bridegrooms, for love and friendship. So absorbed were we in admiration of the enchanting view that we did not at first notice two little maidens sitting at the far end. They were pretty children, of nine and thirteen, daughters of an English family stopping here, and their countenances brightened as they heard our exclamation of delight; for Tell’s Platte was to them a paradise. Like true Britons, however, they said nothing until George and Caroline commenced disputing about the scenery. Comment then was irresistible. “No,” said the youngest, “that is the Isenthal,” pointing to a valley beneath the hills opposite; “and that the Urirothstock, with its glacier above, and the Gütschen. Those straight walls of rock below are the Teufel’s-Münster.” “Don’t you remember where Schiller says: ‘The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster, Has driven them back on the great Axenberg’? That is it, and this here is the Axenberg,” said Emily, the elder girl. “But I see no Platform here,” remarked George with mischief in his eye, as he quickly detected the young girl’s faith in the hero. “It would be impossible to see it,” she rejoined, “as it is three hundred feet below this house.” “But we can show you the way, if you will come,” continued the younger child, taking George’s hand, who, partly from surprise and partly amusement, allowed himself to be led like a lamb across the road and through the garden to the pathway winding down the cliff, followed by us, under guidance of the elder sister, Emily.