ten to you for a day together, while you are talking of your Alps.”
“Don’t you think our mountains beautiful?” she again began, in her former friendly tone. “You should stay here always. I fancy I should not like any spot in the whole world as I do our own. It must be very disagreeable to live in a flat country. Now look, sir, at the Jungfrau: such a sight as evening now presents may perhaps be afforded by the Lebanon in Syria, the Ophyr in Sumatra, and the Chimborasso and Nerona Roa, but certainly not by your Silesian hills: we call it the glow of the Alps. Come, let us sit down under yon spreading beech; that is a favourite place of mine in the evening, and so our old herdsman has put up a soft mossy seat for me in the shade.”
We sat down. The turf around us was variegated with the red willow-herb (Epilobium alpinum angustifolium), thyme, red fescue-grass (Festuca rubra), Androsace villosa, gentian, ironwort, and a thousand other beautiful flowers.
All at once there was a tremendous peal of thunder, which slowly resounded in the immense mountains, and rolled far—far away, through the tranquil atmosphere, to the most remote valleys and ravines. A silvery stream poured from an opposite Alp, and fell, surrounded by a light sparkling arch of snow, deeper and deeper
