WE were just starting on a trip to the "Upper Glacier" from the village of Grindelwald, when my guide called my attention to an old man who sat bowed over upon a bench outside the door of a hotel. "Take a good look at him," he said, "and I will tell you the strange story of his life."

"Old Tiburce," as the man was now called, I learned, was born and had passed all his life in this little Swiss hamlet among the mountains. His parents had been very respectable people, and brought up their little ones in the fear of God and with credit to themselves. Tiburce was the eldest of four children. As soon as he was able to run about on his sturdy little red legs, he was set about tasks that could bring a few pennies into the family purse. His father acted as a guide in summer, and in winter carved picturesque pens, ink stands, nutcrackers, and so on, to sell to the tourists; so that the child came very naturally into the way of earning money, in some way, from strangers and pleasure seekers.

Tiburce's home was a little outside the hamlet itself, on the carriage road that winds up the deep valley from Interlaken. This road is

many hundred feet higher at Grindelwald than at Interlaken; and climbing up the sides of the mountains, as it does, there is one stretch of a mile or two-a belt of climate, so to speak-in which a very irritating species of fly is to be found.

The flies of this troublesome species give serious annoyance to the horses that come up the valley; so that it has long been the custom of the little boys of the hamlet to run along beside the worried beasts, through this stretch of the journey, and to brush off the flies that annoy

Next, as he grew taller and stronger, he was able to assist in watering the horses at the stopping. places along the road and at the stables. For all these services he was paid by a few pennies thrown to him carelessly by the people in the carriages.

Of course Tiburce, like all the lads of the village, looked forward to becoming a guide. That seemed the most desirable calling in life. But he was not yet old enough, by a year or two, although he was now sixteen, to undertake the heavy duties of such a vocation. Still, he was very ambitious, and one day, as he wandered over

OLD TIBURCE WAS GROVELING UPON THE FLOOR OF
THE TUNNEL, POURING OUT GROANS AND MOANS
AND FRAGMENTS OF PRAYERS."

across the valley, and stood at the foot of the "Upper Glacier," upon which he hoped before many years to guide travelers-as he stood there and gazed idly at the great field of ice, he suddenly thought, "Why can't I, as well as Auguste, there, dig a tunnel in the lower part of the glacier, and exhibit it? He is only two years older than I, and surely he is hardly any larger."

So he went up to the place, and watched carefully for a long time, as Auguste was busy keeping his tunnel in repair and piloting tourists through its winding length.

Auguste's pocket. "This pays better than brushing flies." And that very day he set himself vigorously at the task of chopping out a tunnel and grotto for himself, not far from that of Auguste's. When this was done he cleared a path up to it, to make it easy of access; but a very serious anxiety now filled his mind; his gallery, or tunnel, was, indeed, completed, but-it leaked! It did leak badly, and Auguste's did not. Tiburce climbed across, secretly, one night, and examined it. It was not leaking at all. But his own-why, the water dripped from the roof of it very badly, indeed, in several places.

Tiburce was anxious, but he said little, and at last the tunnel was ready for visitors. Then the proud young proprietor stood before the entrance, and nodded and smiled; but his nods became almost fierce, and his smiles turned to ugly grimaces, as people came up to the entrance, looked timidly in, then turned away as they saw the drops of water trickling from the roof.

With all his invitations and protestations, Tiburce could not induce many persons to enter; and even when a few did, they came out hastily, grumbling at the drops of water that had fallen on them, and then went over to the other tunnel. Yes, they went over to Auguste's tunnel, and Tiburce, who watched with angry, envious eyes, could often see that they were comparing the two. Thus Tiburce's tunnel, or gallery, in the glacier was a failure. It was not his fault, however. The tunnel happened to run through sections of the glacier that were porous, or seamed, and thus water soaked in. So the tunnel was a failure, and Tiburce grew to hate Auguste, day after day, with a hatred that became more and more bitter. One day, one stormy day, when no visitors were likely to come, Auguste set off over the glacier on a tour of exploration. He hoped to be acting as a guide before very long, and he desired to become familiar with the higher, more distant and more dangerous parts of the great ice field.

It was not positively known that the unfortunate lad did actually go upon the glacier, but when he was last seen in the village he had expressed his purpose of going.

That was all that was seen or heard of poor Auguste Fronier for a long, long time; yes, for long, long years. But I must not anticipate.

The following day was bright and clear, and Tiburce was early at his post, at the entrance of his own tunnel; but Auguste was nowhere to be seen. When tourista came, they went in and out of Auguste's grotto and tunnel without let or hindrance.

Tiburce stood at his own tunnel entrance, and said nothing. He had on a different hat from

the red and blue woolen one that he usually wore; but he said nothing, and seemed absorbed in his own dark thoughts.

By nightfall it was generally known through the valley that Auguste Fronier had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. He was certainly gone. "Gone where ?" Nobody knew, and his crippled father was in great distress of mind about him.

Naturally the people questioned Tiburce. "Had Auguste been at his ice tunnel in the glacier that day?" Tiburce did not know. More than that, he intimated angrily that it was no business of his to take care of Auguste.

One man seemed a little suspicious.

"Where were you yourself, lad ?" he asked, laying his hand on Tiburce's shoulder, and scanning the boy's face.

"I was working at my tunnel," replied the lad, sharply, and wriggled out from under the man's grasp.

The village folk were presently organized for search. Some of the tourists at the hotel also volunteered. It was recollected that the missing lad had spoken of going that day up over the higher parts of the glacier; and several parties of men gave an entire day to searching all the upper range of the great ice river.

All was in vain, however. Not a trace of Auguste, living or dead, could be discovered, and his poor old father was in despair.

The only thing that could be called a clew was this (at the time it was not much dwelt upon, but afterward it was remembered): One of the guests at the Sweitzer-Hof had been looking out over the landscape that day with a powerful fieldglass, and he saw two men or boys, he could not say which-standing together far up on the northeastern side of the glacier.

The days went by, and the weeks and the months, and nothing was ever seen or heard of poor lost Auguste. Suspicions, at first half expressed by inarticulate gutturals, and by frowns and by shakings of the head, gradually gathered about Tiburce. These suspicions were fostered as much by the lad's morose manner as by anything else; but they did settle over him; and although he grew up, year by year, and at twentyfive was known as an excellent, though a somewhat taciturn, guide, the shadow of an unforgotten past hung over him.

Thus Tiburce continued, a marked man, through the years of early manhood, maturity, and on into a premature old age. He never married, and he never wasted a penny of his hardly earned wages and perquisites.

The year before I visited the village the sequel to all this early part of our story had come out ; and startling and sensational it was, in the highest degree. It happened in this way:

Tiburce had now become an old man. Not so very old in years, but much bowed with exposure and the carrying of heavy burdens. He had been obliged to give up his vocation as a guide; and it came about that he, in these last feeble years of ́his life, returned to the old occupation of his boyhood, namely, the construction of a tunnel in the base of the glacier for exhibition to tourists.

People said openly that there was no need of his working so hard-that he had money laid by for a rainy day; moreover, the dampness of the work must have been bad for his rheumatic joints. But he seemed possessed by a spirit of unrest that pushed him always into activity; and he appeared to care not so much for the money as he did to occupy his brooding mind.

One day during the summer which preceded my own visit to Grindelwald "Old Tiburce" was showing his tunnel to a party of tourists; the few days immediately preceding had been dull and rainy, so that nobody had come up from the hotels, and the old man had used the time to carry his tunnel a score or two of feet further on into the glacier.

The party of tourists came up early in the day. "Old Tiburce" had but just come on the ground himself, not having entered the tunnel since he finished his work the evening before. Asking the tourists to wait a moment, he passed into the mouth of the tunnel, which was resplendent in the bright sun, to see that the passage was clear and ready for visitors.

He went in, out of the sunlight, turned a curve in the winding path; a moment or two elapsed, and then the people outside were startled by a cry, a loud cry of terror, that came confusedly out of the tunnel, muffled by the narrow windings of the place.

The men of the party did not hesitate a moment, but glanced at each other, and plunged at once into the narrow opening, their ears still ringing with cries and groans. In a few seconds they had traversed the length of the gallery, and they stumbled and nearly fell over the prostrate form of the old guide; for the light, in a clear day, is reflected almost blindingly from the sides of these tunnels.

Thus they came most unexpectedly upon " Old Tiburce," who was groveling upon the floor of the tunnel, at its furthest end, pouring out groans and moans and fragments of prayers.

For an instant they did not see the reason for this, and knew not whether the old guide's agony

was physical or mental. Then, as their eyes became accustomed to the blinding glare which enveloped them, they started back themselves, in surprise and horror.

No longer conscious of the wretched man who writhed at their feet, they stared in wonder and awe at the marvelous sight that now burst upon them.

The wall of the tunnel was as clear as crystal, and within its icy depths, as if in the most transparent amber, lay the body, perfectly preserved, of a young lad.

There was no denying the evidence of their eyes. They stood as one man-there were three and drew instinctively a little nearer together, as they stared, with eyes almost starting from their sockets, at the unearthly sight.

For a few moments the ominous silence was unbroken, except by "Old Tiburce," who raised himself again and again on his knees, as if in direst agony, clasped his hands, and moaned, “Auguste! Auguste!" Then he raised his straining eyes upward, and groaned: "Merciful Heaven! have pity!-pity!"

Of course the tourists, knowing nothing of the man's past, understood but little of the situation; and, with all their efforts, they could draw no word of explanation from him; so they raised him from the wet floor of the tunnel, and partially led, partially carried him out, not at all loath to find themselves once more in the open air.

The news soon spread through the village, and ere long a great crowd gathered near the foot of the glacier, at the mouth of the tunnel. For a short time, and for a short time only, "Old Tiburce" was the object of much sympathy; but soon the faint rumor which had begun to circulate deepened into conviction; the wretched man found himself forsaken, and the half-uttered expressions of pity died away on all lips.

The younger people, as they passed into the icy tomb and looked upon the youthful face, so wonderfully preserved, could not of course recall or identify it; but, among the crowd that came from the village, were several old people; and presently one aged woman, as she went in and looked at the dead face, threw up her arms, and shrieked:

"Tis Auguste! The man's sin has at last found him out!"

Then she tottered forth to where "Old Tiburce" was feebly crouching on a plot of grass about ten yards from the glacier. She looked at him, at first solemnly and without anger; but her gaze was not returned. The people gathered closely around. For a moment or two there was