sfigured by human wrath--so fearfully oppressed with human
woe.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

DESCRIBES A WRECK, AND THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

A Swiss chalet on a woody knoll, high up on the grand slopes that bathe
their feet in the beautiful Lake of Geneva.

It is evening--a bright winter evening--with a golden glory in the sky
which reminds one powerfully of summer, and suggests the advent of
spring.

In the neighbouring town of Montreux there are busy people engaged in
the labours of the day. There are also idlers endeavouring to "kill"
the little span of time that has been given them, in which to do their
quota of duty on the earth. So, also, there are riotous young people
who are actively fulfilling their duty by going off to skate, or slide
down the snow-clad hills, after the severer duties connected with book
and slate have been accomplished. These young rioters are aided and
abetted by sundry persons of maturer years, who, having already finished
the more important labours of the day of life, renew their own youth,
and encourage the youngsters by joining them.

Besides these there are a few cripples who have been sent into the world
with deficient or defective limbs--doubtless for wise and merciful ends.
Merciful I say advisedly, for, "shall not the Judge of all the earth do
right?" These look on and rejoice, perchance, in the joy of the
juveniles.

Among them, however, are some cripples of a very different stamp. The
Creator sent these into the world with broad shoulders, deep chests,
good looks, gladsome spirits, manly frames, and vigorous wills. War has
sent them here--still in young manhood--with the deep chests pierced by
bullets or gashed by sabres, with the manly frames reduced to skeletons,
the gladsome spirits gone, the ruddy cheeks hollow and wan, and the
vigorous wills--subdued _at last_.

A few of these young cripples move slowly about with the aid of stick or
crutch, trying to regain, in the genial mountain air, some of the old
fire which has sunk so low--so very low. Others, seated in
wheel-chairs, doubled up like old, old men, are pushed about from point
to point by stalwart mountaineers, while beside them walk sisters,
mothers, or, perchance, young wives, whose cheery smiles and lightsome
voices, as they point out and refer to the surrounding objects of
nature, cannot quite conceal the feelings of profound and bitter sorrow
with which they think of the glorious manhood that has been los