We sat down, and each made a hasty sketch of Mont Blanc.
We took tea at the hotel, which reminded us, by the neatness of its
scoured chambers with their white bedspreads, of the apartments of
some out-of-the-way New England farm house.
The people of the neighborhood having discovered who H. was, were very
kind, and full of delight at seeing her. It was Scotland over again.
We have had to be unflinching to prevent her being overwhelmed, both
in Paris and Geneva, by the same demonstrations of regard. To this we
were driven, as a matter of life and death. It was touching to listen
to the talk of these secluded mountaineers. The good hostess, even the
servant maids, hung about H., expressing such tender interest for the
slave. All had read Uncle Tom. And it had apparently been an era in
their life's monotony, for they said, "O, madam, do write another!
Remember, our winter nights here are _very_ long!"
The proprietor of the inn (not the landlord) was a gentleman of
education and polished demeanor. _He had lost an Eva_, he said.
And he spoke with deep emotion. He thanked H. for what she had
written, and at parting said, "Have courage; the sacred cause of
Liberty will yet prevail through the world."
Ah, they breathe a pure air, these generous Swiss, among these
mountain tops!
