A YOUNG man is busily examining the water-worn rocks along the edge of a Tyrolese stream. Now and then he strikes them with a large sledge-hammer, eagerly snatches up something alive, and pops it into a basket. A wild jÖdel from a mountain-side, half a mile off, makes him look up, and discovers the face of our old, but not very respectable, acquaintance, Franz.

The wild cry was uttered by a girl, who, in course of time, drew near him, knitting as she came along; for a Tyrolese woman never is idle.

"What are you about there, Franz?"

"Can't you see, Theresa? Look at that nice basket of fish."

"How can you be about such nonsense, when every man deserving the name of a man is up in arms? I am quite ashamed of you!"

"Well, Theresa, you are not over-polite; but don't you know that some must plough, and some must sow, and some must handle the mattock and hoe?"

"Well, all I can say is, I think it very contemptible of you!"

"Why, now, Theresa, I call that very unkind! Do you know I was catching these smelts on purpose for you?"

"I would not give a pin for them; I am not dainty in my eating, and if I were, we have plenty of good trout in the Passeyr, to be caught at our own door."

"These would fetch a good price in Innsbruck market, I can tell you!"

"Then you had better carry them to Innsbruck market. Only, take care none of our Passeyrers ask you where you have been these three days."

"Why, Theresa, how bitter you are! You've never had a civil word to say to me since I beat Rudolf at bowls."

"You? Ha, ha, ha!"

"I did, though!"

"Very likely you might; but I have forgotten all about it. People that attend to nothing but hammering stones for smelts, and playing bowls and ninepins, are likely to excel in such things."

"I do attend to a precious lot of things besides—"

"What? Oh, looking after the cows, and smuggling brandy, and selling bad horses for good ones—well, you do all that, I allow."

Franz did not answer her for a few minutes, but leapt actively from rock to rock along the stream; darting here and there on a smelt, and coming back with his hands full.

"There!" said he, throwing them into the basket; "perhaps your mother will accept them of me, if you won't; so I'll carry them to her, and we can walk along together. I've a word or two to say to you."

"What is it?" said Theresa, pursuing her knitting, and stepping out at a good pace.

"All that you said just now," rejoined he, after a short silence, "about my getting brandy, and selling horses, and looking after cows,—to which you might have added doctoring them when ill,—is true enough, Theresa; and what is more, it has put a goodish bit of money into my pocket."

"Very likely," said Theresa; "but what of that? Money is not the thing of most consequence in the world."

"Well, I almost think it is."

"It is of much consequence, certainly, Franz, in this way, I grant you,—the way it is employed,—whether good or evil. If it enables (and inclines) you to be generous and helpful to your poor old blind mother, and your hard-working sister, it is an instrument of good; but if you only hide it in a hole, it is of no good at all; and if you spend it in betting and drinking, it is worse than no good, for it is downright evil."

"All that is very well to say,"—began Franz.

"Nothing is very well to say, unless it be true," interrupted Theresa.

"But it's quite certain," continued Franz, "that money is a real good, whether or no: and for this plain reason—that it gives you power."

"Power of some sort," said Theresa.

"Almost endless power," returned Franz, warming with his subject. "Why, now, how could Buonaparte carry on this war without money?"

"Without wit, rather," said Theresa. "I never heard that he was very rich to start with, but quite the reverse; the thing was, he had a clever head, and made use of it. He was very pains-taking, very resolute; and that has made him so powerful; not money."

"It has put him in possession of money, without which he could not pay his troops," argued Franz; "and if they were not paid, they would not fight for him."

"Not they! I believe you there," said Theresa. "They have not the motives for fighting that we poor Tyrolese have; and that is why we so often beat them."

"Well, but, Theresa, when I began to speak about money, I did not mean to get into this long argument. What I was going to tell you,—(in confidence, you know,)—is that I've a goodish bit of money underground, in a pot—"

"Then, there it will rot!"

"No, it won't! It will increase!"

"What! like a grain of corn? Franz, I wonder how you can tell such stories!"

"I didn't say like corn. It will increase, because I shall put more to it."

"Oh! that's one way—"

"Yes, and that one way will suffice. Why should we try a dozen roads, when one leads to the mill? Now, Theresa, listen to me. I've had a dream—"

"Humph!"

"And I dreamed that I was in a certain spot, which I shall not now disclose; and that I saw a cloud of golden dollars floating in the air before me, just out of my reach—"

"I should think so!"

"Why, that's the beauty of it!" cried Franz, highly excited.

"Is it?" said Theresa, looking mystified.

"Yes; because it's a known thing among the wise ones, that when gold pieces glitter before you in that way in the air, the spot they hover over is where hidden treasure is to be found."

"Who are the 'wise ones?'"

"Oh, there are many old people that can tell about dreams."

"A good many," said Theresa, dryly. "Well, Franz, I hope you won't go wasting your time digging for this hid treasure. You had much better hoe potatoes."

"I don't think so," said Franz; "and I hope you won't think so, if I tell you my motive."

"What motive?" said Theresa.

"That I may be rich enough to marry you."

Theresa turned very red, and then burst out laughing.

"Franz," said she, "don't deceive yourself about that, for I'll not deceive you! I would not marry you if you were made of money. I must have a husband of quite another sort—"

"Rudolf, in short," cried Franz, angrily.

"We are not talking of Rudolf," returned Theresa, turning yet redder. "There are some people that never can believe you don't like them, without it's being the fault of somebody else, instead of their own. If I had never seen any other young man in the world, Franz, I should not choose to marry you."

"Oh, come, now, Theresa!—"

"It's the truth! You have not those qualities which I love."

"What are those qualities?" said Franz, very crustily.

"Spirit; self-denial; temperance; a modest opinion of yourself; generosity; truth; charitable feelings towards others."

"I don't believe there's a fellow with all you want under the sun," said Franz, aiming a stone at that luminary. "If you'd mentioned one thing, I might have tried to acquire it for your sake; but such a lot of them,—no, thank you! the reward wouldn't be worth the trouble: and besides, I know I could not accomplish it; so there's no use in trying."

"But, Franz, what a bad case you make out for yourself, if you own you are deficient in all these things."

"I'm not! I've as many of them as anybody else; but what you want is perfection, and that's what's not to be found. You may fancy you find it, if a fellow pleases you in something else,—white teeth, or black eyes, or a smart jacket, or nobody knows what; but he won't be perfection any the more for all that. And I'm just as honest and fair-dealing as other people, and just as much liked, and not at all intemperate; and as for spirit,—ho! if Rudolf stood here between me and the edge of the cliff this minute, wouldn't I tip him over it, that's all!"

"Franz, you think to intimidate me, but you only fill me with disgust. What good could you hope to reap by such a dreadful piece of cruelty? On the contrary, nothing would ever prosper in your hands afterwards. Do you remember those two young men, both in love with the same girl, who went out together one day to take an eagle's nest? One returned, the other did not: the fact was, one had let down his companion from the top of the cliff to the nest, and then drawn up the rope, and left him to starve, or be torn to pieces by the parent-birds. Think what a miserable end he himself came to afterwards!"

"Ah, there's no knowing what a fellow may be driven to, when he's jealous," said Franz, after a pause—"It's best not to make him desperate."

"He had better not allow himself to become desperate."

"Well, Theresa, here we come to two paths,—one leads to the Wirthhaus, the other does not; which shall I take?"

"Whichever you like; it is quite indifferent to me. The path is yours as much as mine."

"If I take the path to the Wirthhaus, I shall still try and hope to make myself agreeable to you. If I take the path to the left, I shall renounce you for ever!"

"You had better, then, take the path to the left."

"Fish and all?" holding the basket a little towards her, but as if his elbow were tied to his side.

"Fish and all," said Theresa, without intermitting her knitting.

"Then farewell, Theresa, for ever!" cried Franz, in a tone intended to be fiercely tragic. "You have had your last chance of me!" And shouldering his smelts, he strode off.

He was in a very tempestuous state of mind; and many things Theresa had said had cut him more deeply than she thought; but to no good purpose. When a stone came tumbling upon him from the mountain-top, he shook his fist savagely, and muttered, "Even the little people" (i. e. fairies) "are against me!"—and then, considering that if he provoked them, they might lead him a weary dance after the hidden treasure, he muttered a spell supposed to have a propitiating effect.

As the pass widened, he beheld from the height on which he stood, Innsbruck, white and nest-like, basking in the valley afar off, and turned in his mind whether it were worth his while to carry thither the fish we have called smelts for want of an English name for them.

"But no," thought he, "the Sandwirth is again in the town, and I don't care to see him just now, Theresa thinks his luck uppermost, I fancy, and believes he will be made a great general or governor, and that he will marry her to Rudolf, and make him a great man too. She has her own dreams, though she laughs at mine. No, I'll not go; some of my speaking-acquaintance might put the saucy question she spitefully suggested; and even if I got a zwanziger or more for my smelts, it would be very great trouble for very little money. My time will be much better and more pleasantly employed in digging for the pot of gold; for when I've got that, I may pay zwanzigers for smelts myself, if I like; and meantime, I'll sup on those I've caught myself, and eat them with plenty of brown bread and butter—thin brown bread and thick yellow butter—as yellow as a cowslip! aye, that's it!"

Rejoicing that Theresa had not accepted the smelts, since she had not accepted himself, this worthy son of Tyrol wended his way home. How he would have licked his lips if he had been told the story related by Bridel, of that golden age when cows were so large and yielded such abundance of milk, that they were milked into reservoirs or ponds, from which the cream was afterwards skimmed by a man in a boat, (a butter-boat, of course!) which boat, once upsetting, the man could not be found for a long time afterwards, till, at length, his body was discovered sticking in the immense mass of cream, like a smothered fly!

Before Franz reached home, he encountered Lenora in the cow-pastures. She was knitting with all her might, which did not hinder her eyes from roving over hill and valley, and noting the smallest movement within their range. Consequently, she soon espied her brother, whom she saluted with a shrill jÖdel that let him know he was recognised; otherwise he would gladly have gone a little out of his way to escape the interview, as she was one of those who not only do their own duties vigorously, but insist on other people doing theirs.

"Come here, Franz," cried she, as soon as he drew near. "You have not done a stroke of work to-day. To-morrow you must look after the stock."

"Well, the day after to-morrow, I will."

"Why not to-morrow? I want to take my mother to the shrine of St. Kummernitz, to try if it will do her eyes any good, and I can't look after her and the cows too."

"But there's going to be a peasant-play, to-morrow,—Joseph and his Brethren, and I'm wanted to play one of the brethren."

"Truly, I think there might be a better time of year than this for a peasant-play, when we are short of hands at every kind of work. Who has proposed such nonsense?"

"Leopold Strauss is going to marry Bianca Gessner—the play is only going to be got up by her bridesmaids and a few of the bridegroom's friends—"

"But you are not one of them, and we are not related to the bride."

"No, but all his friends are gone to fight, and they can't make up the party without me—"

"Well,—I should think it no great honour to go, under those circumstances; but you will do as you like. The day after to-morrow, then, I may rely upon you—"

"You may rely upon me—"

"You promise me faithfully—"

"I promise you faithfully. And, Lenora, I have bought a new ribbon for my hat: do tie it round for me, there's a good girl—you can tie a bow so much better than I can—and let me have a nice nosegay."

"Nonsense; you can gather your own nosegay. I shall soon have all your things to look up for the chÂlet—the cows' bells must be rubbed up, and their straps embroidered; you might and ought to have cleaned the bells and trappings yourself, if it were not for this wedding, which no way concerns you."

"Who knows, Lenora? I may pick up a rich wife at it—Bianca has six sisters, who are going to play the six youngest brethren, and I shall have plenty of opportunities of making myself agreeable!"

"You? Why, you have always talked of meaning to marry Theresa Hofer!"

"She won't suit me," said Franz contemptuously; "I may do better for myself than that, I fancy."

"I doubt it very much. More likely, you don't suit her."

"That just shows how much you know about it. You girls think you may have anybody you like!—Well, don't let us talk any more of this nonsense; but come and cook these smelts for supper; and then I'll give you my hat to trim."

"That's just like one of your givings: here—give me your hat, and do you drive in the cows."

Franz would have liked her to do both, but he knew that was too much to expect; so he gave her the hat and the basket of fish, and prepared to collect the herd.

When Lenora reached the cottage, she found rather a pleasant-looking man talking to her mother.

"Here comes Lenora, I can tell, though I can't see," said he. "Lenora, I am telling your mother she is better off than I am, for she is only almost blind, but I am quite; and yet I contrive to find my way by myself from Meran to Innsbruck every summer, to tune the pianos."

"Ah, there must be a special providence over you, Karl," said Lenora compassionately, "or you would come to some hurt."

"I know there must be," said he devoutly. "However, now and then, some good Christian soul meets me and leads me by the hand along some difficult pass; but they are sent by God."

"You should marry, Karl," said the old woman, "and then your wife would lead you."

"Who would marry a poor blind fellow like me?" said Karl, rather sadly. "No, no; I must be content with chance kindnesses."

"Well, you are sure to be welcome, wherever you go," said Lenora cheerfully. "And you shall have a dainty supper to-night, for Franz has caught some delicate fish."

"Your mother tells me she's going to St. Kummernitz's shrine, for the benefit of her eyes," said Karl. "I never heard St. Kummernitz was particularly famous for that."

"Oh, she's famous for everything," cried the old woman, in a sort of ecstasy; "dear blessed Saint! she cured me once of the toothache!"

"You're a bit of a heretic, I fear," said Lenora gravely. "You have been too long at Geneva."

"Well, certainly, this saint of yours seems to have rather an incredible legend. Your mother tells me, she was a famous opera-dancer some thousand years or so ago, and was so persecuted by the admiration her personal charms called forth, that she prayed she might be made less attractive. On which, rather to her dismay, a beard began to sprout from her chin, accompanied by a very bushy moustache over her upper lip, which effectually extinguished the ardour of her lovers; and though she has been dead so many years, the beard continues to grow to this day!"

"Well, and what of that?" cried the old woman.

Karl smiled; but the entrance of Franz caused a change in the subject of conversation.