One day she was sitting in the window, propped up with pillows, looking out at the roof-tops, and the blue sky over them. No one was in the room; but Gabrielle, who had left it for a few minutes, on returning found her singing in a plaintive voice, and crying softly,—
'Heart, my heart, why art thou weary,
Why to grief and tears a prey?
Foreign lands are bright and cheery;
Heart, my heart, what ails thee, say?
That which ails me past appeasing,
I am lost, a stranger here;
What, though foreign lands be pleasing,
Home, sweet home, alone is dear.'
Then, turning to Gabrielle, she asked when they were going.
'Where would you go, dear mistress?' asked the girl.
'Home, to native rocks and sky,' she answered; and then sang,—
'Through the fragrant pine-boughs bending,
I should see the glacier shine;
See the nimble goats ascending
Gentian-dappled slopes in line.
See the cattle, hear the tinkle
Of the merry-clashing bells;
See white sheep the pastures sprinkle
In the verdant dewy dells.'
'Do you know, Gabrielle,' said the lady, interrupting her song, 'the cow-bells are the most beautiful music in the world? Call Nicholas here. He will tell you the same.' As she insisted, Gabrielle was obliged to go to the young man's workshop, and summon him.
'I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nicholas, but madame is resolved to hear from you that cow-bells make beautiful music.'
'There is no music like them!' exclaimed the youth, becoming at once enthusiastic; 'you should hear them of a summer evening, when the cattle are being driven home to be milked. It is the maddest, merriest clatter in the world. You really must hear them. It is worth going all the way to Switzerland to hear them. I will go to madame instantly.' Rushing into the room to her, he began at once,—'Madame! there is nothing like them. To hear them at a distance, a tinkle here and a tinkle there, as the cattle are being driven from the pastures,—it is like silver music rippling down the sward in countless rills; then the cows unite in the path, and you have fifty twinkling, tinkling notes rushing together; and when they come close to you it is overwhelming,—it is like children's thoughts in play set to music.'