Those walks and rides round Berne—in the sight of the glorious snowy Alps, or by the brawling Aar—I never shall forget. They are among the brightest parts of my life. Several times I referred to my mysterious friend and deliverer, Posela, from whom I had not received any letter or communication since he had left for America.
"I so wish you could meet him," I said one day, as we were walking on the hills near Berne, to Maud Christopherson. "Perhaps you could find out his mystery. They say ladies are sharper in detecting secrets than men are."
"I should, indeed," said Maud, "like to make the acquaintance of your mysterious friend. A man who can pass a friend out of Paris in the midst of the siege through the Prussian lines,—who has such wonderful powers of putting people to sleep when be wants,—who is so learned on every subject and yet so young,—such an admirable Crichton, who never will tell anything about his nation, or origin, is indeed a curious person worth meeting. I rather like eccentric people. Your friend seems like Joseph Balsamo of Dumas' novel; but I hope he is not such a rascal."
"No; I am almost sure, mysterious though
