-trees, which now shade the whole island.
Babette was quite charmed with this little spot; they must and should
go there, yes, it must be charming beyond description to be on the
island; but the steamer sailed by, and stopped as it should, at
Vernex.

The little party wandered between the white, sunlighted walls, which
surround the vineyards of the little mountain town of Montreux,
through the fig-trees which flourish before every peasant's house and
in whose gardens, the laurel and cypress trees are green. Half-way up
the hill stood the boarding house where the god-mother resided.

The reception was very cordial. The god-mother was a large amiable
person and had a round smiling countenance; as a child she must have
had a real Raphael's angel head, but now it was an old angel's head
with silvery white hair, well curled. The daughters were tall,
slender, refined and much dressed. The young cousin who was with them,
was clad in white from head to foot; he had golden hair and immense
whiskers; he immediately showed little Babette the greatest attention.

Richly bound books, loose music and drawings lay strewn about the
large table; the balcony door stood open and one had a view of the
beautiful out-spread lake, which was so shining, so still, that the
mountains of Savoy with their little villages, their forest and their
snowy peaks mirrored themselves in it.

Rudy, who usually was so full of life, so merry and so daring, did not
feel in his element; he moved about over the smooth floor as though
he were treading on peas. How wearily the time dragged along, it was
just as if one was in a tread mill! If they did go walking, why, that
was just as slow; Rudy could take two steps forwards and two steps
backwards and still remain in the pace of the others.

When they came to Chillon, (the old sombre castle on the rocky island)
they entered in order to see the dungeon and the martyr's stake, as
well as the rusty chains on the wall; the stone bed for those
condemned to death and the trap-door where the wretched beings impaled
on iron goads, were hurled into the breakers. It was a place of
execution elevated through Byron's song to the world of poetry. Rudy
was sad, he lent over the broad stone sill of the window, gazed into
the deep blue water and over to the little solitary island with its
three acacias and wished himself there, free from the whole gossiping
society. Babette was remarkably merry, she had been indescribably