“You seem to have a good many books, Mrs. Cheerlove. Have you any likely to be of service to me, that you could lend me?”
“I am afraid they are hardly modern enough,” said I, doubtfully. “You are perfectly welcome to any of them.”
She scanned their titles at the back:—“‘Alpine Sketches.’ That’s promising. ‘1814!’ Oh, what years and tens of years ago! ‘With all my heart, said I, as H. carelessly mentioned the idea.’ What an abrupt beginning!” She laughed, and replaced the volume on the shelf. “Mamma,” said she, “has been reading the Rev. Mr. King’s ‘Italian Valleys of the Alps,’ and is very desirous to see the great St. Bernard and Monte Rosa, and the Breithorn, and Petit Cervin. I am chiefly desirous to see Mont Blanc. There’s such a charming account of it, and of Jacques Balmat, in ‘Fragments du Voyage.’ But Jacques Balmat is dead, though some of his family are guides. Papa has bought us two of Whippy’s portable side-saddles, which fold up into waterproof cases, with spare straps, tethers, whips, and everything one can want; and he has bought guide-books, maps, saddle-bags, telescope and microscope, and air-tight japanned cases to strap on our mules, so that our equipment will be complete.”
“You must take a sketch-book.”
“Oh, yes, mamma has given me one already; and a journal, and a vasculum for dried flowers and ferns.”
“You will see beautiful butterflies, as well as wild flowers, in the valleys.”
“Are butterflies worth studying, Mrs. Cheerlove?”
“Certainly they are.”
“I will recommend papa, then, to take a butterfly-net. Do you think it a good plan to keep a journal?”