‘Oh! I am an old friend of the family. I knew your father better than your uncle, though. Your uncle is not over-friendly, you see.’ ‘I am sorry for that.’ ‘No occasion at all. I suppose he doesn’t like me. I fancy, being a Methodist--’ ‘My uncle is not a Methodist, I assure you. He goes to the parish church regularly.’ ‘Oh! it’s all one. I only meant to say that, being a man of somewhat peculiar notions, I supposed he did not approve of my profession. Your good people are just as ready as others, however, to call in the lawyer when they fancy their rights invaded. Ha! ha! But no one has a right to complain of another because he doesn’t choose to like him. Besides, it brings grist to the mill. If everybody liked everybody, what would become of the lawsuits? And that would unsuit us--wouldn’t it, Clara?’ ‘You know, papa dear, what mamma would say?’ ‘But she ain’t here, you know.’ ‘But _I_ am, papa; and I don’t like to hear you talk shop,’ said Clara coaxingly. ‘Very well; we won’t then. But I was only explaining to Mr Cumbermede how I supposed it was that his uncle did not like me. There was no offence in that, I hope, Mr Cumbermede?’ ‘Certainly not,’ I answered. ‘I am the only offender. But I was innocent enough as far as intention goes. I came in drenched and cold, and the good people here amused themselves dressing me like a girl. It is quite time I were getting home now. Mr Forest will be in a way about me. So will Charley Osborne.’ ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Coningham, ‘I remember hearing you were at school together somewhere in this quarter. But tell us all about it. Did you lose your way?’ I told them my story. Even Clara looked grave when I came to the incident of finding myself on the verge of the precipice. ‘Thank God, my boy!’ said Mr Coningham kindly. ‘You have had a narrow escape. I lost myself once in the Cumberland hills, and hardly got off with my life. Here it is a chance you were ever seen again, alive or dead. I wonder you’re not knocked up.’ I was, however, more so than I knew. ‘How are you going to get home?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know any way but walking,’ I answered. ‘Are you far from home?’ ‘I don’t know. I dare say the people here will be able to tell me. But I think you said you were going down into the Grindelwald. I shall know where I am there. Perhaps you will let me walk with you. Horses can’t go very fast along these roads.’ ‘You shall have my horse, my boy.’ ‘No. I couldn’t think of that.’ ‘You must. I haven’t been wandering all day like you. You can ride, I suppose?’ ‘Yes, pretty well.’ ‘Then you shall ride with Clara, and I’ll walk with the guide. I shall go and see after the horses presently.’ It was indeed a delightful close to a dreadful day. We sat and chatted a while, and then Clara and I went out to look at the Jungfrau. She told me they had left her mother at Interlaken, and had been wandering about the Bernese Alps for nearly a week.