the stout peasant women helped one another
to raise their baskets on their backs, slipping
the strap that held it over their arms,
and striding off.  The fortunate ones who
had made good sales, or those who had
brought no burden back, made stacks
of baskets of themselves with good stout
legs to carry them, clad in an incredible
number of petticoats.

"Why do they wear so many petticoats?"
said Bella.  "One would think their entire
fortune consisted of petticoats, and they
were afraid to leave them at home.  See
that woman with a basket of sour-krout.
As she stooped over to raise her basket, I
counted four woollen petticoats about her
ankles of different lengths and colours; and
in July!"

The deck was at length quite clear, save
that one or two peasants sat quietly smoking
their pipes, the whiffs of which, being
now and then borne to us, caused us to
ask what they smoked.

"Tobacco," said Fraülein Fanny; "bad
tobacco."

"Leather," said Bella.

"And feathers," said I.

The river narrowed rather suddenly.
Precipitous rocks began to rise, until all
along the right side were high curious
cliffs, constantly suggesting ruined castles.
We were sure they were old castles, and
insisted to Fraülein Fanny that it must be
so; but no, she said, it was only a peculiar
formation of the rocks.  Frequently, little
gorges, between the rocks, ran down to the
river. In each was a little village.  At the
opening of a broader gorge lay the little
town of Schandau, with its pretty pointed
church spire rising over the quaint high
roofs with eye-like windows, which seemed
to watch us as we glided up. Here we
landed our remaining passengers, and
steamed away for our last halt at
Herrneskretchen.  The river continued to narrow,
and we watched the landscape with interest,
for here we were to make our home for a
time. At last the village came in sight, as
Fraülein Fanny said.  We saw only a long
white house of three stories, with eyes in
the roof, at the foot of high cliffs.  Nothing
else.  Yes; Bella saw a flagstaff on the
rock the other side of the gorge.

We were disappointed.  We said so.

"You do not like it?" said the Fraülein.
"See that window that looks on the rock.
Will you not like such a room?"

"Why, one can see nothing but the
rock," said Bella; "and it must be
dreadfully hot."

"We shall see," said our guide, not at all
troubled at our dismay.

The custom-house officer came to
inspect our luggage, our captain disembarked
us, took care of our luggage, and we
climbed a flight of stairs, and found
ourselves before the ugly house we had seen
from the river.  We were marched into
it.   A broad, well-worn, stone-paved hall,
another flight of stairs, and we came into
a large room, with a table occupying its
whole length.  At one end sat a party of
tourists, dining. "What will you eat?"
said our friend.   "One must first dine; and
after we will see the village."

"And our rooms?" said I.

"After we dine also," said the Fraülein.
She had a dry, droll look, and I began to
suspect that the sunny window whose view
was bounded by the projecting crag was
not to be ours.  In Bohemia one must eat
broiled chickens.  They are a speciality;
and a bottle of sparkling Bohemian wine
goes well to wash them down.  It was
not merely that we had good appetites
after our boat-ride, but the cook of the
Herrenhaus had that day done his best.
Having dined well, we were ready to see
our new abode.  We came out into the
road.  A noisy little stream dashed over
pebbles a few rods from the Herrenhaus,
and, following its course, we found the
village.  "Oh, how pretty!" we cried, as
we turned into the tiny valley down which
the stream flowed.  "Every house is a
picture, Fraülein, just as you told us!"
The houses were built of wood, with deep
sloping roofs, and often with rustic galleries
running beneath them, where the housewife
busied herself, and flaxen-headed
children climbed the rail to peer at the
passers-by.  The cliffs rose behind the
houses, topped with pines struggling for
existence in their rocky beds.  Groups
of pretty children played in the street,
or waded in the stream.  Soon the
village church, with a cross surmounting its
spire, seemed to stop our way. As we
drew near, we saw a number of people
waiting about its half-opened door.
Excited boys were endeavouring to get a
peep through the crack, but were
prevented by the appearance of a peasant
in his Sunday's best.  A murmur ran
through the little crowd.  New heads
appeared at the already crowded
Wirthschaft door, which on the left commanded
a view of the church.  The miller, the
grocer, and the women and children, waiting
in front of the Gasthaus on the right,