Her father and mine had gone a little out of the path,
leaving me in charge and Alice to rest. Seeing some bright flowers of
a peculiar species I stopped to gather them, and when I returned Alice
was reading. It was not of Christ's power, glory and majesty, but of
his love, the tenderness he felt for us, of his life, and last of all,
of his death. I had never heard the story before, and it took entire
possession of my spirit. Going down the mountain I was continually
asking myself, 'What shall I render to him for all he has suffered on
my account? and what for the blessings he has given me?' Thinking of
his buffetings, scoffs and scourging, I could hardly keep the tears.
My father observing this, and supposing that I was weary or had hurt
myself, was kinder than usual; but when I told him of the little book
and what Alice had told me of the love of Jesus, he grew angry and
said that the next time they needed a guide I should stay at home. 'I
have listened once or twice,' he said, 'because my living depends upon
my politeness to strangers; but when it comes to turning the heads of
my children it is quite another thing.'
"A few weeks after this Mr. Wyndham left Chamouni for Lausanne.
"'We shall miss you,' said Alice; for my father let me go to bid them
good-by; 'and that you may have something to remember me by, I am
going to give you this little Bible. You will see that I have marked
the passages I want you to study; and you must try to read it every
day.
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