ugh
she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her
esteem.

While the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their
maid, Lewis, Lawrence, and the Captain, taking advantage of the improved
state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as
Lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinner--although, to say
truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no
freshening up. They walked smartly along the road which leads up the
valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the
wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. Gradually
these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well
defined against the clear sky. And then, for the first time, came a
feeling of disappointment.

"Why, Lawrence," said Lewis, "didn't they tell us that we could see the
top of Mont Blanc from Chamouni?"

"They certainly did," replied Lawrence, "but I can't see it."

"There are two or three splendid-looking peaks," said Lewis, pointing up
the valley, "but surely that's not the direction of the top we look
for."

"No, my lad, it ain't the right point o' the compass by a long way,"
said the Captain; "but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, let's overhaul
her."

"Heave a-head then, Captain," said Lewis, "and clap on stun's'ls and
sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the
hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we don't look
sharp."

The "strange sail" was a woman. She soon turned into the cottage
referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew
near, that Lawrence, being the best French scholar of the three (the
Captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her.

She turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she
explained, of one of the Chamouni guides, named Antoine Grennon. Her
daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a
casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that
mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby
the washerwomen of the Alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds
and patches in the shortest possible space of time.

After some complimentary remarks, Lawrence asked if it were possible to
see the summit of Mont Blanc from where they stood.

Certainly it was; the guide's pretty wife could point it out and
att