must be thine, thirty years hence, if thou'rt alive
to claim it."

Saxon shrugged his broad shoulders, and lit
his pipe with a fragment of blazing pine-wood
picked from the fire.

"Pish! at seventy-seven years of age, if I am
alive!" he exclaimed. "Of what good would it
be to me?"

Martin made no reply, and they were both
silent for several minutes. Then the pastor stole
a furtive glance at his brother, coughed, stared
steadily at the fire, and said,

"There is but one course for it, Sax. Thou
must marry."

"Marry!" echoed the stout farmer, all aghast.

The pastor nodded.

"Marry? At my time of life? At forty-
sev—- No, thank you, brother. Not if I know
it."

"Our poor father always desired it," said
Martin.

Saxon took no notice.

"And it is in some sense thy duty to provide
an heir to this fortune which—-"

"The fortune be—- I beg thy pardon,
Martin; but what can it matter to thee or me
what becomes of the fortune after we are
both dead and gone? It would go to found
charities, and do good somehow and somewhere.
'Twould be in better hands than mine, I'll
engage."

"I am not so sure of that," replied the pastor.
"Public charities do not always do as much good
as private ones. Besides, I should like to think
that a portion of that great sum might be devoted
hereafter to the benefit of our poor brethren in
Switzerland. I should like to think that by-and-
by there might be a good road made between
Tamins and Flims; and that the poor herdsmen
at Altfelden might have a chapel of their own,
instead of toiling hither eight long miles every
Sabbath; and that a bridge might be built over
the Hinter Rhine down by Ortenstein, where
poor Rütli's children were drowned last winter
when crossing by the ferry."

Saxon smoked on in silence.

"All this might be done, and more," added the
pastor, "if thou wouldst marry, and bring up a
son to inherit the fortune."

"Humph!" ejaculated the farmer, looking
very grim.

"Besides," said Martin, timidly, "we want a
woman in the house."

"What for?" growled Saxon.

"To keep us tidy and civilised," replied the
pastor. "Things were very different, Sax,
when our dear mother was with us. The house
does not look like the same place."

"There's old Lötsch," muttered Saxon. "He
does as well as any woman. He cooks, makes
bread—-"

"Cooks?" remonstrated the younger brother.
"Why, the kid to-day was nearly raw, and the
mutton yesterday was baked to a cinder."

The honest farmer stroked his beard, and
sighed. He could not contradict that stubborn
statement. Martin saw his advantage, and
followed it up.

"There is but one remedy," he said, "and that
a plain one. As I told thee before, Sax, thou
must marry. 'Tis thy duty."

"Whom can I marry?" faltered Saxon,
dolefully.

"Well, I've thought of that, too," rejoined
the pastor, in an encouraging tone. "There's
the eldest daughter of our neighbour Clauss.
She is a good, prudent, housewifely maiden, and
would suit thee exactly."

The elder brother made a wry face.

"She's thirty-five, if she's an hour," said he,
"and no beauty."

"Brother Saxon," replied the pastor, "l am
ashamed of thee. What does a sensible man of
seven-and-forty want of youth and beauty in a
wife? Besides, Marie Clauss is only thirty-
two. I made particular inquiry about her age
this morning."

"Why not marry her yourself, Martin?"
said the farmer. "I'm sure that would do quite
as well."

"My dear Saxon, only look again at the will,
and observe that it is the direct heir male of
the eldest son of the eldest son—- "

Saxon Trefalden pitched his pipe into the fire,
and sprang to his feet with an exclamation that
sounded very like an oath.

"Enough, brother, enough!" he interrupted.
"Say no more—put the will away—I'll go down
to the Bergthal to-morrow, and ask her."

And so Saxon Trefalden put on his Sunday
coat the following morning, and went forth like
a lamb to the sacrifice.

"Perhaps she'll refuse me," thought he, as he
knocked at Farmer Clauss's door, and caught a
glimpse of the fair Marie at an upper casement.

But that inexorable virgin did nothing of the
kind.

She married him.

There were no ill-cooked dinners after that
happy event had taken place. The old house
became a marvel of cleanliness, and the bride
proved herself a very Phœnix of prudence and
housewifery. She reformed everything—
including the hapless brothers themselves. She
banished their pipes, condemned old Carlo to his
kennel, made stringent by-laws on the subject
of boots, changed the hour of every meal, and,
in short, made them both miserable. Worst of
all, she was childless. This was their bitterest
disappointment. They had given up their pipes,
their peace, and their liberty, for nothing. Poor
Martin always looked very guilty if any allusion
happened to be made to this subject.

Matters went on thus for seven years, and
then, to the amazement of the village, and the
delight of the brothers, Madame Marie made her
husband the happy father of a fine boy. Such a
glorious baby was never seen. He had fair hair
and blue eyes, and his father's nose; and they