wholly worthy to be the bridegroom of Clothilde. The people of the valley were honest, and not a young villager of them all but would have made for her a watchful husband, and cared well for the flocks which belonged to her father's fold.
In that day, as now, village fêtes were held in every time of spring, at which the young mountaineers contended with each other in wrestling, and in the cast of heavy boulder-stones, and in other mountain sports, which tried their manliness, and which called down the plaudits of all the village dames. The spring and the spring fêtes were now approaching, and it was agreed between the father and the curé, that where all were so brave and honest, the victor in the village games should receive, for reward, the hand of Clothilde.
The villagers were all eager for the day which was to decide the fortunes of their valley heiress. Clothilde herself wore no cloud upon her brow; but ever, with the same serene look, she busied her hands with her old house-cares, and sang the songs which cheered her old father's heart.
The youth of the village—they were mostly the weaker ones—eyed her askance, and said, "She can have no heart worth the winning, who is won only by a stout arm." And others said still, "She is icy cold, and can have no heart at all."
But the good curé said, "Nay;" and many a one from sick-beds called down blessings on her.
There were mothers, too, of the village, thinking, perhaps, as mothers will, of the fifty kids and of the half-score of dun cows, which would make her dowry, who said, with a wise shake of the head, "She who is so good a daughter will make also a good wife."
Among those who would gladly, long ago, have sought Clothilde in marriage, was a young villager of Lauterbrunnen, whose name was Conrad Friedland.
He was a hunter as well as a herdsman, and he knew the haunts of the chamois upon the upper heights as well as he knew the pasturage-ground where fed the kids which belonged to the father of Clothilde. He had nut-brown hair, and dark blue eyes; and there was not a maiden of the valley, save only the pensive Clothilde, but watched admiringly the proud step of the hunter Friedland.
