ing shrieks of the bride were heard on the coast!"

The book does not tell, however, of Babette's quiet life with her
father; not in the mill, where strangers now dwell, but in the
beautiful house, near the railway station. There she looks from the
window many an evening and gazes over the chestnut trees, upon the
snow mountains, where Rudy once climbed. She sees in the evening hours
the alpine glow--the children of the Sun encamp themselves above, and
repeat the song of the wanderer, whose mantle the whirlwind tore off,
and carried away: "it took the covering but not the man."

There is a rosy hue on the snow of the mountains; there is a rosy hue
in every heart, where the thought dwells, that: "God always gives us
that which is best for us!" but it is not always revealed to us, as it
once happened to Babette in her dream.

The Butterfly.

The butterfly wished to procure a bride for himself--of course, one of
the flowers--a pretty little one. He looked about him. Each one sat
quietly and thoughtfully on her stalk, as a young maiden should sit,
when she is not affianced; but there were many of them, and it was a
difficult matter to choose amongst them. The butterfly could not make
up his mind; so he flew to the daisy. The French call her
_Marguerite_; they know that she can tell fortunes, and she does this
when lovers pluck off leaf after leaf and ask her at each one a
question about the beloved one: "How does he love me?--With all his
heart?--With sorrow?--Above all?--Can not refrain from it?--Quite
secretly?--A little bit?--Not at all?"--or questions to the same
import. Each one asks in his own language. The butterfly flew towards
her and questioned her; he did not pluck off the leaves, but kissed
each separate one, thinking that by so doing, he would make himself
more agreeable to the good creature.

"Sweet Margaret Daisy," said he, "of all the flowers you are the
wisest woman! You can prophesy! Tell me, shall I obtain this one or
that one? Which one? If I but know this, I can fly to the charming one
at once, and pay my court!"

Margaret did not answer. She could not bear to be called a _woman_,
for she was a young girl, and when one is a young girl, one is not a
woman.

He asked again, he asked a third time, but as she did not answer a
single word, he questioned her no more and flew away without further
parley, intent on his courtship.

It was early spring time, and there was an abundance of snow-dr