THE BRAVE SWISS BOY. (Concluded from p. 103.)

IT was, indeed, a fearful night, worse

than anything Gottfried had ever known; the driving wind almost blinded him, and at every * his feet sank deeper into the snow. The dog kept on a few paces before him, and seemed to be sniffing about on the ground. Gottfried strained every nerve to listen for some human voice, but he could catch no sound, and his heartsank within him; was it a false alarm, or was Bernard leading him towards the wolves? Then he thought of the words of comfort: “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life;” they cheered his soul, and with fresh courage he went on. Presently Bernard stopped, and began moaning piteously, and as the boy reached the spot his foot stumbled against some soft substance ; his heart beat fast, and his hand trembled so much, that he could hardly hold the lantern steady to see what was there. It was a human body that had sunk into the drifting snow—he held his breath as the rays of the lantern fell on the pale face—he shuddered. . . . No 1 it could not be Surely it was some fearful dream, for there before him, cold and stiff as in death, lay his brother André! Overcome by the sudden shock, his knees gave way beneath him, and he sank on §. ground by his brother's side. It was but for a moment; there was no time to lose, and starting to his feet, he clasped his brother in his arms, and scarcely feeling the weight, turned his steps homewards. Unconscious of wind or snow, he seemed only to live for his precious burden, and would hardly have found his way had it not been for the faithful dog, who, at his master's word, picked up the lantern, and guided him safely to the door. In a few minutes, which seemed like hours to Gottfried's impatience, the fire was burning brightly, and André was

stretched before it, while his brother was busy warming and rubbing his frozen limbs. He gave no sign of life, his heart seemed still, and no breath escaped from his lips. Nearly an hour had thus passed in death-like silence, when, oft. Bernard, who had remained perfectly quiet by his master's side, gave a joyful bark, and began licking André's face and hands with the wildest delight. Poor Gottfried, who had almost given up all hope, eagerly placed his hand at his brother's heart, and listened for some sign or sound, as though his own life depended on it. It was a moment of fearful suspense.— Yes, there was, he fancied, a slight movement, and, with renewed hope and courage, he went on with his labour of love. Soon the poor boy gave a gasp for breath, and half opened his eyes— he was saved. Before the mornin dawned, he had fallen into a peacef sleep, and Gottfried sat watching by his side in speechless joy, and full of the deepest jo. to Almighty God, who had heard his earnest prayer, and had restored to him, almost by a miracle, his darling brother.

As oil. gradually recovered his strength, he explained in answer to his brother's eager questions, how it was that he had undertaken such a fearful journey in the dead of winter-at the most dangerous time indeed, when the avalanches were most numerous, and when he himself was far from strong. He said that since his return to the valley with Martin, his mother, although she was too kind to blame him for leaving his brother, and had tried to hide her own fears, had been very sad and anxious. The milder air of the valley, and the caretaken of him, had soon made André stronger, so that his mother did not long feel any anxiety with regard to him, and all her thoughts dwelt upon her absent son. Often in the long winter evenings, as she sat spinning by the fireside, with little Christine and André, she would shed many tears at the thought of her darling boy, alone upon the mountain-top, so far from all human aid. Her greatest comfort was to talk of him; and whenever travellers from Engelberg passed through the village, she would go to meet them, and ask with o eagerness if they had seen her Gottfried. The history which Simon Balmat had given of his adventures, while it made her heart overflow with joy and pride at her boy's heroic conduct, had surpassed her worst fears of the dangers which surrounded him, and she began to despair of ever seeing him again alive. As weeks passed away, and the winter became more severe, her grief and anxiety increased each day. Late one afternoon towards the end of January, a peasant, laden with cheese, reached the valley; and as he had just crossed the mountain, some of the villagers, amongst whom were Martin and Simon, gathered round him anxiously to know if he brought any tidings of the brave Gottfried. He said that he had gone over the pass with great danger and difficulty, but had seen no signs of the little châlet; there was nothing but snow everywhere, and he feared it must have been swept away by an avalanche. Just as the man was speaking, André and his mother came up. There was a dead silence, for nobody dared to tell them at first the dreadful tale; but they saw, by the faces of their neighbours, that there were no good tidings, and soon learnt enough to awaken their worst fears. “Never,” continued André, “shall I forget that fearful night. Poor mother was half distracted, and in the first agony of her grief could listen to no hope or comfort. . With her head bowed down, and her hands clasped before her face, she rocked herself backwards and forwards, murmurin ‘No, my boy! my brave boys' An poor little Christine, after vainly tryin to soothe her, sat down on the j sobbing as though her heart would break. I could not bear it: the thought

that I had forsaken you like a coward seemed almost maddening. I felt as if I were guilty of your death, and that I should never dare to look my mother in the face again. Like a flash of lightning came the thought that I would go in search of you, and that, if I could not save you, I would die with you.” “Oh, André! what ness! Did you not think how much worse it would be for our mother to lose all her support—to be bereaved of both her sons at once 1” interrupted Gottfried, deeply moved. “Yes! I knew that every one would say it was madness, so I told nobody about it. Oh, Gottfried do not blame me! I could not bear to live with such a fearful weight on my soul!” “I think it is sometimes nobler to live than to die,” said Gottfried, earnestly: “besides, André, you had nothing to reproach yourself for." “Before daybreak next morning, while the house was all quiet, I stole gently out, for fear of being stopped, and took the path to the mountain. The snow was so deep in some parts that I sank in at every step above my knees. Oh, it was a fearful journey! Then that dreadful snow-storm came on. I had been walking all day, and was faint, and weary. But I will not tell you how much I suffered, dear Gottfried, for my story has grieved you too much already. At length, after blindly wandering about I sank down in the snow, with a dim feeling that all was over, and with barely strength to breathe a last prayer. I woke to find you bending over me.” Gottfried's eyes were dim with tears, and he could only answer by pressing his brother to his heart. For many days the snow continued to fall incessantly. The inside of the little dwelling became much darkened by the drifting of the snow before the window; but one morning, when Gottfried attempted to open the outer door, he found to his dismay that the châlet was now completely blocked up—in fact, buried in the snow. He knew only too well what that meant; that for three or four weary months they would be shut up in that prison-house, until May or June, when the snow would melt and break up. His first thought was, how they would live in the meantime, and he went anxiously to examine their stock of food and fuel. Alas! it was but a scanty store to last them so long, for it had been sadly diminished by their generous hospitality. Then he thought of our Saviour's miracle of the loaves and fishes, and in humble, trusting faith the brothers knelt together, to

ray that their Father in Heaven, who oved and cared for all His creatures, would remember them in their deepest need, and give them strength manfully to endure, and patiently to submit to, His will. Time passed away slowly and wearily, for night and day were all alike to them in their dark prison under the snow; the silver watch, Martin's parting gift, was their only sign of the passing hours. They were never gladdened by a ray of sunlight, and they watched with aching hearts the little pile of firewood getting smaller day by day; for they knew that when all was gone, they would have to pass their time in utter darkness. André, whose health had been weakened by his exposure to the cold, became ever more languid and pale; and the unchanging gloom of his abode saddened him so much, that, as he lay sleepless upon his straw couch, he thought the weary hours would never end, and in his heart he longed for death. Gottfried, whose spirit was more hopeful, tried to cheer his brother with kind words and gentle care; but, alas! he himself was getting thin and wasted, for he would often deprive himself of his own scanty meal, in order that there might be more for André. To make matters worse, they lost one of the goats, and the other pined so much for its dead companion, that they had scarcely any milk. Once

in that long, endless night, André was speaking sadly to his brother, “Oh, Gottfried, I feel that we shall never see our dear mother again on earth: the food is almost gone, so our sufferings must soon come to an end. How I wish that God would take us both together, for I can't bear the thought of one of us being left to die here all alone in this fearful darkness.” Gottfried was about to reply, when the old dog began to bark furiously, and to leap upon his young masters as though he were mad. André half started from his bed, and they both held their breath to listen more intently. It was a moment of terrible suspense—they heard nothing. At length they caught a faint sound, as of some motion in the snow above their heads. Gottfried shouted as loud as he could, and presently they heard a voice answering, and could make out their own names. There could now be no doubt of the joyful truth: their friends from the village had come in search of them, and they were saved. In the hour of joy, as in the time of distress, their first thought was of God, one of hearty gratitude for their wonderful deliverance: and, as the brave men who had rescued them at last got into the hut, their next care was for their mother. How had she borne the dreadful time when she thought that both her sons were lost? Tears filled the eyes of the rough mountaineers, amongst whom were our friends Martin and Simon, as they saw the miserable condition of the noble boys; and they could scarcely find words to tell them, that their mother had mourned for them as dead, and would not be comforted. I need hardly say that the deliverers of our young heroes lost no time in releasing them from their snowy prison, and restoring them to the light of day. Early the next morning, they went down from their mountain-home, carried in triumph on the shoulders