ds,
mildewed, rumpled, and weary, but full of enthusiastic delight over
their successful ascent of St. Bernard.

War broke out, and Alexandre, the all-accomplished head-waiter, dropped
his napkin, shouldered his gun, and marched away, leaving the Hotel des
Bains desolate. Being pretty thoroughly baked, and very weary of the
little town, our trio departed to Vevey, and settled down in the best
_pension_ that ever received the weary traveller.

Standing in its own pretty grounds, and looking out upon the lake,
Pension Paradis deserves its name. Clean and cosy within, a good table,
a kindly hostess, and the jolliest old host ever seen! what more could
the human heart desire?

Vevey was swarming with refugees. Don Carlos, or the Duke de Madrid, as
he was called, was there with his Duchess and court, plotting heaven
knows what up at his villa, with the grave, shabby men who haunted the
town.

Queen Isabella reigned at one hotel, and Spanish grandees pervaded the
place. There were several at Pension Paradis, and no one guessed what
great creatures they were till a _fete_ day arrived, and the grim, gray
men blossomed out into counts, marquises, and generals covered with
orders, stars, and crosses splendid to behold.

One particularly silent, shabby little man with a shaven head and fine
black eyes, who was never seen to smile, became an object of interest on
that occasion by appearing in a gorgeous uniform with a great gilt
grasshopper hanging down his back from a broad green ribbon. Who was he?
What did the grasshopper mean? Where did he go to in a fine carriage,
and what was he plotting with the other Carlists, who dodged in and out
of his room at all hours?

No one ever knew, and all the artful questions put to the young
Spaniard, who played croquet with the girls, were unavailing. Nothing
was discovered, except that little Mirandola had a title, and might be
sent back to Spain any day to lose his life or liberty in some rash
plot, which circumstance made the black-eyed boy doubly interesting to
the free-born Americans. Lavinia bewailed his hard lot, Amanda taught
him whist and told his fortune, and Matilda put him in her sketch-book
done in the blackest India-ink. It is also to be recorded that the
doomed little Don was never seen to laugh but once, and that was when
the girls taught him the classical game of Muggins. The name struck him;
he went about saying it to himself, and on the first occasion of his
being 'm