"I wish I could take you both with me," said Mr. Hanway, as he kissed his
children good-by, and stepped into the carriage that was to bear him up
among the mountains on a visit to an old friend; "but Fletcher here will
take good care of you, Amy, and I am sure neither of you will forget
what I've told you about keeping away from the boats."
Fletcher was ten and Amy eight, and the two, with their father, who was
a widower, were stopping at a cozy little hotel on the shores of a
lovely lake in Switzerland.
It was only on very rare occasions that Mr. Hanway permitted himself to
be separated from his children during their travels abroad, but as the
hotel where they had now been staying for nearly a week was a very
home-like one, and as he expected to be back in time for supper, he felt
that he could safely leave them to amuse themselves for a few hours.
Thus cast upon their own resources, the brother and sister read
story-books and played in-door games until dinner-time. At the table
were some American tourists just from the summit of the highest mountain
in the place, and to their lively descriptions of the views to be had
therefrom, and of the pretty nooks scattered all over it, both children
listened with eager ears, and when one of the young ladies held up a
bunch of "just the loveliest wild flowers" which she had gathered by the
road-side, Amy whispered to her brother that she really must go a little
way up that very afternoon.
"But papa isn't here to take us," objected Fletcher, who longed to go as
much as his sister, although he was old enough to understand that his
father would not like to have them leave the hotel in his absence.
"Papa didn't tell us we mustn't climb mountains--only boats," returned
Amy, cunningly. "And, besides, didn't he say you could take care of me?
and don't you think you can?" and the artful little tease looked up at
her stout young brother with a most confiding air.
Under these circumstances, what could Fletcher reply but that he was
most certainly able to protect her, and that he would do so for a little
way, a very little way, up the mountain, as they must be sure to be at
the hotel when father came back.
Greatly delighted at having gained her point, Amy ran off for her hat as
soon as dessert was over, and having stuffed a paper of candy into her
pretty little arm-basket, announced herself ready. And then the two set
out, Fletcher, with his alpenstock, leading the way up through the town,
on by the winding path through the woods, up, up, until the beautiful
lake came into view below them.
"Let's rest here a minute," proposed Fletcher. "This flat rock'll make a
nice seat; and while we eat some candy, I'll teach you the names of the
snow mountains over yonder."
So the expedition halted while the captain pointed out what he _thought_
was Mont Blanc, the king of all the peaks; the beautiful Jungfrau, with
its silver horn, and--But turning to see if Amy was looking in the right
direction, Fletcher found her eyes closed, and her head just sinking to
his shoulder.
"Poor little thing, she's tired out. I'll let her have a short nap
before we start down again." So, while Amy slept, her brother ate
chocolate drops and studied the Alps.
Now it would have been quite romantic and Babes-in-the-Woodsy if he too
had been overcome with drowsiness, thus leaving them both lying there
asleep on the mountain-side until an elf, giant, or some other rarely
seen creature, came to wake them up and conduct them to a wonderful
grotto, studded with diamonds and paved with pearls. But as this is not
a fairy tale, nothing of the sort occurred, for Amy presently woke up of
her own accord, and finding the basket empty, recollected what she had
come for, upon which the two began searching for wild flowers.
At first Fletcher rather affected to despise the occupation, but after
they had gathered a few, he found them so pretty, and it grew to be so
exciting to wonder where they would chance upon some more, that he
speedily became as absorbed in the hunt as Amy herself, and both
wandered over the mountain in every direction.
At last the pretty little basket was filled to the top with still
prettier contents, and at the same time Fletcher noticed that the sun
was very near the tip of one of the snow mountains.
"Come, Amy," he exclaimed, "we must hurry back, or papa'll be there
before us;" and taking her by the hand, he set out for the path by which
they had ascended.
"But why can't we go down right here?" asked Amy. "It'll be such fun to
go sort o' sliding down hill."
"I guess we needn't slide," returned Fletcher, "for here's a kind of
path we can take; so now hold on to me tight, and be careful not to
slip;" and down the two started over the rough way, for the
mountain-side was covered with stones, little and big, which the feet of
the children sent rolling and crashing on ahead of them in quite a noisy
fashion.
With each advancing step the path grew fainter and fainter, until it
finally disappeared entirely, and nothing was to be seen but trees and
rocks and stones.
"Shall we go back, Amy?" asked Fletcher, as they both came to a halt;
and then he added: "But no, we haven't time; so we must keep on."
"All right; but you don't think there are any snakes under these stones,
do you, Flet?"
Then they went on down again, but the way grew ever rougher and rougher,
and the stones slipped from under their tired feet more and more
frequently.
"Oh dear! ain't we 'most there?" half sobbed Amy, as she stubbed her toe
against a rock in front of her, while a stone rolled down on her heel
from behind.
"I guess so. Shall I try to lift you over this place? See, there must
have been a brook here in the spring;" and Fletcher pointed out a
shallow ravine that crossed their path obliquely, and which was choked
with stones and brush-wood.
Without waiting for an answer, the kind-hearted boy threw his alpenstock
across, and then picking Amy up in his arms, started over himself. He
reached the opposite side in safety, and was about to step up to level
ground again when his foot caught under a stone, and in trying to keep
his sister from being harmed by his fall, he left no hand free with
which to save himself.
"Oh, Flet, are you hurt?" cried Amy, as she quickly scrambled to her
feet.
"Not much; only my ankle." But the "not much" proved to be a sprain
serious enough to prevent his walking a step, and after attempting to do
so once or twice, the brave little fellow was forced to fall back upon
the rocks, with an expression of pain which he could not repress.
And now the children's situation became quite a grave one. They were as
yet, as well as they could judge, a mile or more above the town, the sun
had already vanished behind the snowy peaks opposite, the autumn
twilight was rapidly closing in, and, worse than all, Fletcher could not
and Amy would not move.
"How can I go away and leave you here?" she would say when urged to
hurry back, so that father should not worry.
"But I'm all right as long as I sit still," her brother would reply.
"Besides, the sooner you go and tell them at the hotel, the quicker
they can send somebody up for me."
At length, convinced that under the circumstances this was the wisest
thing to do, Amy set bravely out, but had not proceeded more than twenty
feet before she came screaming back, declaring she had seen a snake, and
that she could never, never go on through the dreadful woods alone.
"Let me stay with you, Flet," she begged. "I'm sure when papa misses us
he'll come right up here;" and her brother, seeing she had no doubts on
this point, thought it best not to remind her that it was just as
natural to suppose that he would look in a dozen other directions for
them first.
So the two sat together there on the mountain-side, watching the stars
come out, and wondering if this was their punishment for being naughty.
But presently Amy's eyelids grew heavy again, and leaning her head
against Fletcher, she asked him to wake her "as soon as papa comes,"
when suddenly a reddish glare flashed forth out of the darkness beneath
them; portions of mountain and lake appeared distinctly as by day, while
trees and rocks and bushes stood revealed in startling vividness.
"Oh, what is it, Flet?" cried Amy, hiding her face in terror.
"Don't be afraid," he answered. "I guess it can't hurt us, whatever it
is."
Still the boy had dreadful visions of earthquakes and volcanoes, which
he somehow imagined were much more common in Europe than in America.
And now the red light had changed to green, this in turn to blue, then
back to red again, and so on, until the brother and sister became
completely mystified.
On a sudden, while the red glare lit up everything around, there was a
sound of rolling stones, a man's voice exclaimed, "Thank God for St.
Jacques!" The next instant Mr. Hanway's strong arms were about both his
children.
"Oh, papa, I knew you'd come!" cried Amy, joyously. "But now you must
put me down, and carry Flet, 'cause I was naughty, and he's hurt, and
all from 'sisting me."
Then the situation was explained. Two young gentlemen from the hotel
tenderly raised the helpless boy and carried him between them, and thus,
the happy father still retaining his little girl, they started down the
hill again, guided by the strange lights safely to the town.
Fletcher soon recognized in his bearers two members of the party from
the mountain-top that had been so enthusiastic at dinner, and they
furthermore told him that it was at their suggestion that Mr. Hanway had
first directed his steps to the hill-side, "for," said one, "we noticed
how eagerly your little sister listened to my cousin's description of
the wild flowers."
"And did you have those funny lights lit so's you could see us?" asked
the boy.
"Not exactly," was the laughing response. "That is the illumination in
honor of St. Jacques, whose several-hundred-and-something-or-other
birthday it is to-day, I believe."
"But how do they make the lights, and who is St. Jacques?" pursued
Fletcher.
"They have different colored 'fires,' as the preparations are called,
which are touched off at the same instant at various points about the
lake; and as for St. Jacques, that is the same as St. James in English."
"That's what papa's queer speech meant, then, when he found us."
"And I say 'Amen' to it," returned the young man, huskily, "for I
believe we'd have gone right on past you both if it had not been for
that scarlet glow from the fête of St. Jacques."