talked to me about her mother, who had been dead eight years—about the good sister Crescentia in the nunnery at Zug, and about every thing that concerned herself, with the same artlessness as if I had been one of the family. “The Alp on which we are,” continued she, “is my mother’s portion, and father gives it me for pocket-money; but I don’t know what to do with it all. Oh, I am rich! Only think, I have six-and-thirty cows; each cow produces yearly two hundred weight of cheese, which sells for at least ten crowns the hundred weight. My Alp always supplies my cows with fresh grass in summer, and more hay than they want in winter; and this is all that I need care about. Have you any mountains in your country?”
Lest I should only embarrass her by the mention of such as are less known, I named the Giant Mountains of Silesia.
“Giant Mountains, forsooth!” said she, smiling. “Why, their greatest height is but five thousand feet. Our Finster-Aarhorn is above thirteen thousand. There’s a mountain for you!”
I could not conceal my surprise at her knowledge.
“You must not banter me, sir,” said she bashfully, “or I shall hold my tongue.”
“Ah Mimili! speak on,” cried I, kissing her hand, which lay within my arm. “I could lis-
