Honor did not sleep the first part of the night; her ankle was stiff and painful, and she was a little feverish. She had a vision, in the middle of the night, of Gretli, towering like an Alp beside her in a mammoth nightgown, holding a cup to her lips and murmuring, “Tisane! to make sleep well. Taste! but taste then, my child!”

Honor tasted, sipped, drank deep of the pleasant cooling draught, herbs and honey and whey mysteriously mingled; then sank back on the pillow. Was it really Gretli or a mountain? The Dent d’Oche, come to visit her and accept her homage? Why not? Hesperus came! Mountains—maidens—tisane— The next thing Honor knew the morning sun was shining in on her: not directly in her face, but reflected through the open door in the little mirror opposite the foot of her bed. She sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes.

“Where am I?” she said again, as she had said the day before; the next moment she knew, for there was Gretli in the doorway, beaming broad and bright as the sun itself. She carried a basin—a very small one—and a towel of homespun damask fit for a duchess.

“It is to wash the face, is it not?” she said. “Before breakfast; such is the custom of the honored Ladies, one is aware.”

“Oh, thank you, Gretli! What a pretty towel!”

Gretli beamed broader still. “It is of my trousseau!” she said. “I chose it for mademoiselle, because it is the pattern I like best; observe! the double-basket weave; that is not ugly, hein? I spun and wove that when I was of the age of Mademoiselle.” “Your trousseau!” cried Honor. “Are you going to be married, Gretli? Oh, how exciting! Does Madame know? May I tell the girls? Who is he? Is he as handsome as—but he couldn’t be!”

“Mademoiselle must not excite herself before breakfast!” said Gretli demurely. “All girls make their trousseau, is it not so? Then if the good God sends a husband, voilÀ! one is not unprepared. Permit that I brush the hair of mademoiselle; the brush is entirely new, a present from my godmother. But, what hair! Verily, it curls like the flames on the hearth. A fire of gold, is it not so?”

“Isn’t it horrid?” sighed Honor. “I’d give everything I have in the world to have it black, Gretli!”

Gretli cried out in horror.

“Mademoiselle! the wonderful hair; beautiful enough, with reverence be it said, for the tresses of Ste. GÊneviÈve herself. But mademoiselle jests, of a surety. She is doubtless thankful, as she surely ought to be, for this gift of the good God, which might be desired by queens. VoilÀ! Mademoiselle is tidiness itself; a little moment, and I bring her breakfast!”

What a breakfast that was! CafÉ-au-lait, a whole bowl of it, smoking, fragrant, delicious; crisp rolls, fresh butter, honey and cream, and a little tea-rose-colored egg, which Gretli declared the youngest pullet had laid on purpose not half an hour before. All this neatly arranged on a wooden tray so beautifully carved that Honor cried out at sight of it. Gretli glowed responsive.

“Zitli’s work!” she said proudly. “It took the prize at the carvers’ exhibition last year; in the department of young persons, be it understood. He was offered much money for it, but no! it was for me, he said, the good child! I value it highly, mademoiselle.”

“I should think so!” said Honor. “Why, I never saw anything so lovely. What are the flowers?”

“Edelweiss and alpenrosen; they are my flowers. But now let mademoiselle eat, lest her breakfast cool! I return shortly.”

Honor ate her breakfast with right good will, enjoying every mouthful as a healthy girl should. Between bites and sups, she exchanged morning greetings with the mountains, which showed as friendly a face as the night before, though no rosy veil softened their morning splendor of white and green.

“Did you bring me the tisane last night, Royal Highness?” said Honor. “Or was it really Gretli? She looked quite as big, you know! Are any of your mountain ladies as handsome as she is? Wouldn’t they look funny in blue skirts and black bodices? How many yards do you suppose it would take—”

A light cloud-shadow drifted over the shining face of the Dent du Midi; it was as if he said, “Don’t talk nonsense, child!” Honor accepted the rebuke, and devoted herself to her honey and rolls.

By and by came Gretli again to inspect the ankle. It was better, but still swollen and painful. After examining it carefully, the good giantess vanished, and presently reappeared, carrying carefully a glass bowl in which were two black objects about two inches long. At first sight Honor thought they were stones or bits of black wood: but looking carefully at them, she saw one move.

“Gretli!” she cried. “They are alive! What hideous, horrible creatures! Take them away, please!”

“In truth they are alive!” Gretli nodded contentedly. “Have no fear of them, Mademoiselle. They are good creatures, and understand their business well. See how your ankle is swollen, is it not? I apply my good little sangsue (leech), and in a few moments—but mademoiselle will see!” and without more ado she clapped first one leech and then the other on the offending ankle.

Honor shrieked aloud at the touch of the cold, clammy creatures; shrieked louder still when they applied themselves, in a quiet but efficient way, to the work in hand. The two shrieks rent the air; startled the browsing goats outside, brought Zitli to his feet in the outer room, to see what was the matter. Looking up, in the act of opening her mouth for a third, Honor saw Gretli’s face of demure amazement, and stopped short.

“Why—why do you look at me like that?” she faltered. “They are horrible and disgusting, and they hurt me! I never heard of anything so dreadful!”

“Is it so?” Gretli spoke gravely. “Mademoiselle is young. There are many things more dreadful than a sangsue, which was made by the Divine Hand, and given for the use of man. Mademoiselle observes that we live upon a mountain, where physicians do not abound; thus, we employ the remedies that Nature imparted to our fathers, and are thankful. To the montagnard, the sangsue is a good friend. Zitli went before daybreak to the little pond to bring these fresh and lively for mademoiselle.”

Honor blushed scarlet, and hung her head.

“I am sorry!” she murmured. “It—it was very kind of Zitli. Don’t tell him, please, Gretli! I am so ashamed!”

“Assuredly, no!” Gretli was her own beaming self again; a slight shake of her head as she glanced toward the door warned Zitli to make no sound; he vanished silently.

“Friend sangsue is not beautiful!” she admitted cheerfully. “Also, he surprised mademoiselle. I should have explained in advance—but in that case mademoiselle might not have permitted; so all is well, and now I remove these gentlemen, who have breakfasted to heart’s content—voilÀ! Back to your bowl, messieurs! Now a little massage, and we shall see!”

Wonderful massage that, with the strong, supple fingers! The pain seemed to melt away under them. When it was over, and the ankle firmly bound in bandages of strong homespun linen (no “gauze” in mountain chÂlets!) Honor declared it felt almost entirely well.

“I believe I could walk on it! May I try, Gretli?”

“On no account, Mademoiselle! It is great happiness to have relieved you of the pain, but for strength, time and patience are required. It will be several days before mademoiselle can stand on that foot; meantime—behold her conveyance.”

She held out her massive brown arms with a delightful smile. Ten minutes later, Honor was reclining, well propped with pillows, on the seat that ran the length of the broad window in the living room. Her lame ankle, swathed in its bandages, contrasted oddly with her other foot in its stout little walking shoe. Honor had pretty feet. Stephanie admired them greatly (her own feet being large and flat) and was constantly praising them. Soeur SÉraphine heard her one day, and said gravely that both girls should be simply thankful that their feet were not deformed.

“It would have been fully as easy for the good God to give you club feet,” she reminded them, “and it is through no merit of yours that this was not ordained. If a foot is good to walk on, that is all we should ask of it.”

The Sister walked away up the allÉe. Stephanie, shrugging her shoulders, pointed at the footprint she left on the white sand.

“But regard!” she murmured. “It is well for the Sister to speak; her foot was considered the most beautiful in Paris, my mother has told me so.”

Honor was glad Stephanie could not see her foot now; the next moment she forgot all about it.

The broad window looked out upon the green in front of the chÂlet, a shelf, as it were, of the mountain, which fell steeply away below it, and rose no less steeply behind. There was just room for the buildings (the chÂlet, the cowhouse and various small outbuildings), and for this pleasant green space. The grass was short and close as turf, though no lawn mower had ever touched it. The goats attended to that; here they were now, nibbling busily away, as if they had no time to spare. In the middle of the green sat Zitli, on a low stool, milking one of the she-goats. His crutch lay on the grass beside him; he was whistling gayly, and looked bright as the morning. Presently Honor, watching, saw him give a quick little glance over his shoulder, and then very quietly take a crutch in one hand, while he went on milking with the other. Following his glance, Honor was aware of Bimbo, standing a few paces in the rear of Zitli, his beautiful head thrown back, his eyes measuring the distance between him and the boy. Now he cast a wary glance around him; nibbled grass for a moment with an air of elaborate detachment; then dropping his head swiftly, he sprang forward like arrow from the bow.

Whack! the crutch caught him full on the muzzle: he rolled over with a shrill bleat of amazement, rage and pain.

Honor clapped her hands in delight.

“Hurrah!” she shouted.

Zitli looked up and laughed back at her.

“Bon jour, mademoiselle!” he cried, waving his victorious crutch. “He has his breakfast, that one, not so?”

“Look out, Zitli!” cried Honor. “There comes SÉraphine, on the other side!”

She-goats do not butt; nevertheless, SÉraphine, sidling quietly up, evidently meant mischief. She stretched her neck toward the brimming pail; another moment, and—whack! the crutch caught her too, and she retired shaking her head violently.

“What possesses the creatures?” cried Honor.

“The pixies are riding them, mademoiselle!” replied Zitli. “OhÉ, Gretli! the pail is full, and the creatures are ridden.”

Gretli came hastening out to lift the heavy pail, and scold the unruly goats, which scattered in every direction at sight of her; some up the mountain, some down, away they went, leaping from stone to stone, till not one was to be seen save old Moufflon, standing on a point of rock and gravely bleating reproof to his troublesome flock.

Zitli followed Gretli into the house, and while she disappeared into the dairy, he came and sat down by Honor’s window-seat. He hoped mademoiselle had slept well; pain, that was not agreeable, no indeed. He rejoiced to hear that it was nearly gone this morning. “Are the goats always so mischievous, Zitli?” asked Honor.

“Not always! often, yes; but I hold it not wholly the fault of the creatures. To-day, for example, they are pixy-ridden, that sees itself easily.”

“What do you mean, Zitli?”

“Mademoiselle knows about the pixies? No? True, they are of the mountains; in cities, one hears, they are not known, but here—yes, indeed! They are like men, only small, small, and full of mischief. At times, they are visible to mortals, at others not; it is as they please. Mademoiselle permits that I bring my work-bench, yes? Like that, I can talk better; that is, if mademoiselle would care to hear?”

Seeing Honor all eagerness, he hobbled across the room, and returned, pushing before him a small table covered with bits of wood and carving tools.

“Like that!” he repeated, settling himself, and taking up his work. “While the hands work, the tongue may play; if it speaks no evil!” added the boy, crossing himself gravely.

“Tell me about the pixies!” cried Honor. “Did you ever see one, Zitli?”

Zitli glanced toward the dairy.

“The sister holds it not well to speak of them,” he said uneasily; “but so long as one says no harm—Brother Atli thinks it was a dwarf I saw, mademoiselle, a mortal being, only small, like a tiny child. There are such, he says, and all he says is true. Nevertheless—” he paused.

“Nevertheless? Do go on, Zitli!”

“He was very small!” Zitli spoke in a half-whisper. “Smaller than any child I ever saw; and he wore a green coat. Mademoiselle can judge for herself. Certain it is that he had a bag full of money, hung from his belt. There was a hole in it, and some coins had fallen out, gold and silver pieces. There they lay in the road, and he all unknowing. I called to him, and he turned and gave me a look of anger truly frightful. I began to pick up the coins, and brought them to him as quickly as I could; then, quite suddenly, his look changed. He thanked me as a father might, and gave me—look, mademoiselle!”

He drew from under his shirt a small bag that hung round his neck, and opening it, displayed a gold coin.

“Oh, Zitli, how wonderful!” cried Honor. “And you think—you really think he was a pixy? May I look? Oh! but—but this is a real coin, isn’t it? A ten-florin piece. Would a pixy have that, do you think, Zitli?”

Zitli nodded thrice, gravely. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “those people can have what they like—or the appearance of it. Never while I live will I spend this gold; and—mademoiselle may think this strange, but it is true—since I have had it my back has given me no pain; but none at all, compared with former times. It is true, as my sister says, that the doctor at Lucerne gave also some help; yes, I am not ungrateful to him; but—” he nodded several times, gravely, as he replaced the bag around his neck.

“Are they often seen?” queried Honor. “Could—do you suppose a girl could see them, Zitli?”

“But assuredly! indeed, some hold that they are kinder to maidens than to men. There is the story of Magdalen of Pilatus. Mademoiselle has never heard that? She lived at the foot of that dreadful mountain—” Zitli crossed himself again—“and she was a good girl, and beautiful, but very poor. Higher up on the mountain lived her mother’s cousin Klaus, and he was very rich, and his gold, men said, come by in no honest way, but of that I know nothing. Once the mother fell sick, and felt a longing for a certain kind of cheese, which they were too poor to buy. Magdalen went to the rich Klaus, and asked for a piece of this cheese, of which it was known that he possessed a large store, but he would not give her so much as would lie on the point of a pin, and drove her away with cruel words. Then she went to her betrothed, Alois, a good youth, but little richer than herself. He gave her what cheese he had; but as she was returning home down the mountain, her foot slipped, and she dropped the cheese, which rolled down the precipice and was lost. Magdalen sat down and wept bitterly; as she wept, she felt a pull at her sleeve, and looking up, lo! there was a little green man with a long beard and a cheese on his shoulder. In his hand he held a green plant, and he bade Magdalen give over her weeping.

“‘Take this plant,’ he said, ‘and make of it a tisane for your mother; it will cure her of her sickness. As for cheese, here is one that will do instead of that you lost!’

“He then disappeared like a mist of night. Magdalen hastened home and made the tisane and gave it to her mother, who recovered her health at once. And when they cut open the cheese, mademoiselle, it was all pure gold within. So they became rich, and Magdalen and Alois were married, and bought many fine pastures and cows, and became the happiest couple in Switzerland. But from that day the wicked Klaus began to lose his riches, and at last he died a beggar whom Magdalen fed out of her bounty.”