not keep it back,
Make me a little happier, let me know it.--TENNYSON

The foreign tour proved a great success. The summer in the Alps was
delightful. The complete change gave Bertha new life, bodily strength
first returning, and then mental activity. The glacier system was a
happy exchange for her _ego_, and she observed and enjoyed with all the
force of her acute intelligence and spirit of inquiry, while Phoebe was
happy in doing her duty by profiting by all opportunities of observation,
in taking care of Maria and listening to Mervyn, and Miss Charlecote
enjoyed scenery, poetry, art, and natural objects with relish keener than
even that of her young friends, who were less impressible to beauty in
every shape.

Mervyn behaved very well to her, knowing himself bound to make the
journey agreeable to her; he was constantly kind to Bertha, and in the
pleasure of her revival submitted to a wonderful amount of history and
science. All his grumbling was reserved for the private ear of Phoebe,
whose privilege it always was to be his murmuring block, and who was only
too thankful to keep to herself his discontents whenever his route was
not chosen (and often when it was), his disgusts with inns, railroads,
and sights and his impatience of all pursuits save Bertha's. Many a time
she was permitted to see and hear nothing but how much he was bored, but
on the whole the growls were so mitigated compared with what she had
known, that it was almost contentment; and that he did not absolutely
dislike their habits was plain from his adherence to the ladies, though
he might have been quite independent of them.

Bertha's distortion of eye and hesitation of speech, though much
modified, always recurred from fatigue, excitement, or meeting with
strangers, or--still worse--with acquaintance. The difficulty of
utterance distressed her far more than if she had been subject thereto
from infancy, and increased her exceeding repugnance to any sort of
society beyond her own party. The question whether she were fit to
return home for the winter was under debate, when at Geneva, early in
September, tidings reached the travellers that produced such a shock as
to settle the point.

Juliana Acton was dead! It had been a very short attack of actual
illness, but disease had long been secretly preying on her--and her
asperity of disposition might be accounted for by constant unavowed
suffering. It was a great blow. Her unpleasant qual