II. MONT VELAN 519

46. It chanced so, one day, when we were going from Vevay to Geneva. It was hot on the deck, and we all went down into the little cabin, which the waves from the paddle wheels rushed past the windows of, in lovely wild masses of green and silver. There was no one in the cabin but ourselves (that is to say, papa, mamma, old Anne, and me), and a family whom we supposed, rightly, to be American, of the best sort. A mother with three daughters, and her son,-he in charge of them all, perhaps of five or six and twenty; his sisters younger; the mother just old enough to be their mother; all of them quietly and gracefully cheerful. There was the cabin table between us, covered with the usual Swiss news about nothing, and an old caricature book or two. The waves went on rushing by; neither of the groups talked, but I noticed that from time to time the young American cast somewhat keen, though entirely courteous, looks of scrutiny at my father and mother.

In a few minutes after I had begun to notice these looks, he rose, with the sweetest quiet smile I ever saw on any face (unless, perhaps, a nun’s, when she has some grave kindness to do), crossed to our side of the cabin, and addressing himself to my father, said, with a true expression of great gladness, and of frank trust that his joy would be understood, that he knew who we were, was most thankful to have met us, and that he prayed permission to introduce his mother and sisters to us.¹

The bright eyes, the melodious voice, the perfect manner, the simple, but acutely flattering, words, won my father in an instant. The New Englander sat down beside us, his

¹ [In a letter to Ruskin (dated “Shady Hill, 28 Sept. 1888”) Professor Norton wrote: “But I shall first write on the margin of the lovely account of our meeting on the little steam-boat on the Lake of Geneva that I, American as I was, should never have ventured to address your father or you on that memorable day, had you not before that time been previously kind to me. The autumn before, that poor fellow Jarves had given me a note of introduction to you. I had sent it to you, asking only to be allowed to see your Turners. You had kindly sent me word to come and look. I went, and besides the pictures found you! But because you were there, most kind and courteous, I did not stay long, and when we met in the little cabin you had forgotten my face. My excuse for addressing you was your previous goodness to me.”]

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