Describes a Wreck, and the Triumph of Love.  
A Swiss chalet on a woody knoll, high up on the grand slopes that bathe their feet in the beautiful Lake of Geneva.
 
It is evening—a bright winter evening—with a golden glory in the sky which reminds one powerfully of summer, and suggests the advent of spring.
 
In the neighbouring town of Montreux there are busy people engaged in the labours of the day. There are also idlers endeavouring to “kill” the little span of time that has been given them, in which to do their quota of duty on the earth. So, also, there are riotous young people who are actively fulfilling their duty by going off to skate, or slide down the snow-clad hills, after the severer duties connected with book and slate have been accomplished. These young rioters are aided and abetted by sundry persons of maturer years, who, having already finished the more important labours of the day of life, renew their own youth, and encourage the youngsters by joining them.
 
Besides these there are a few cripples who have been sent into the world with deficient or defective limbs—doubtless for wise and merciful ends. Merciful I say advisedly, for, “shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” These look on and rejoice, perchance, in the joy of the juveniles.
 
Among them, however, are some cripples of a very different stamp. The Creator sent these into the world with broad shoulders, deep chests, good looks, gladsome spirits, manly frames, and vigorous wills. War has sent them here—still in young manhood—with the deep chests pierced by bullets or gashed by sabres, with the manly frames reduced to skeletons, the gladsome spirits gone, the ruddy cheeks hollow and wan, and the vigorous wills—subdued at last.
 
A few of these young cripples move slowly about with the aid of stick or crutch, trying to regain, in the genial mountain air, some of the old fire which has sunk so low—so very low. Others, seated in wheel-chairs, doubled up like old, old men, are pushed about from point to point by stalwart mountaineers, while beside them walk sisters, mothers, or, perchance, young wives, whose cheery smiles and lightsome voices, as they point out and refer to the surrounding objects of nature, cannot quite conceal the feelings of profound and bitter sorrow with which they think of the glorious manhood that has been lost, or the tender, pitiful, heart-breaking solicitude with which they cherish the poor shadow that remains.
 
In a large airy apartment of the chalet on the woody knoll, there is one who occupies a still lower level than those to whom we have just referred—who cannot yet use the crutch or sit in the wheelchair, and on whose ear the sounds of glee that enter by the open window fall with little effect.
 
He reclines at full length on a bed. He has lain thus, with little effort to move, and much pain when such effort was made, for many weary weeks. Only one side of his face is visible, and that is scarred and torn with wounds, some of which are not yet healed. The other side is covered with bandages.
 
I am seated by his side, Ivanka is sitting opposite, near to the invalid’s feet, listening intently, if I may be allowed to say so, with her large black eyes, to a conversation which she cannot understand.
 
“You must not take so gloomy a view of your case, Nicholas. The doctors say you will recover, and, my good fellow, you have no idea what can be done by surgery in the way of putting a man together again after a break-down. Bella would be grieved beyond measure if I were to write as you wish.”
 
I spoke cheerily, more because I felt it to be a duty to do so, than because I had much hope.
 
The invalid paused for a few minutes as if to recover strength. Then he said—
 
“Jeff, I insist on your doing what I wish. It is unkind of you to drag me into a dispute when I am so weak. Tell the dear girl that I give her up—I release her from our engagement. It is likely that I shall die at any rate, which will settle the question, but if I do recover—why, just think, my dear fellow, I put it to you, what sort of husband should I make, with my ribs all smashed, my right leg cut off, my left hand destroyed, an eye gone, and my whole visage cut to pieces. No, Jeff—”
 
He paused; the light vein of humour which he had tried to assume passed off, and there was a twitching about the muscles of his mouth as he resumed—
 
“No, Bella must never see me again.”
 
Ivanka looked from the invalid’s face to mine with eyes so earnest, piercing, and inquiring, that I felt grieved she did not understand us.
 
“I’m sorry, Nicholas, very sorry,” said I, “but Bella has already been written to, and will certainly be here in a day or two. I could not know your state of mind on my first arrival, and, acting as I fancied for the best, I wrote to her.”
 
Nicholas moved uneasily, and I observed a deep flush on his face, but he did not speak.
 
That evening Ivanka put her arms round my neck, told me she loved Nicholas because of his kindness to her father, and besought me earnestly to tell her what had passed between us.
 
A good deal amused, I told her as much as I thought she could understand.
 
“Oh! I should so like to see Bella,” she said.
 
“So you shall, dear, when she comes.”
 
“Does she speak Russian?”
 
“Yes. She has been several times in Russia, and understands the language well.”
 
As I had predicted, Bella arrived a few days after receiving my letter. My mother accompanied her.
 
“Oh, Jeff, this is dreadful!” said my poor mother, as she untied her bonnet-strings, and sat down on the sofa beside Bella, who could not for some time utter a word.
 
“What child is that?” added my mother quickly, observing Ivanka.
 
“It is the daughter of Dobri Petroff.—Let me introduce you, Ivanka, to my mother, and to my sister Bella—you know Bella?”
 
I had of course written to them a good deal about the poor child, and Bella had already formed an attachment to her in imagination. She started up on hearing Ivanka’s name, and held out both hands. The child ran to her as naturally as the needle turns to the pole.
 
While my mother and I were talking in a low tone about Nicholas, I could not avoid hearing parts of a conversation between my sister and Ivanka that surprised me much.
 
“Yes, oh! yes, I am quite sure of it. Your brother told me that he said he would never, never, never be so wicked as to let you come and see him, although he loved you so much that he—”
 
“Hush, my dear child, not so loud.”
 
Bella’s whisper died away, and Ivanka resumed—
 
“Yes, he said there was almost nothing of him left. He was joking, you know, when he said that, but it is not so much of a joke after all, for I saw—”
 
“Oh! hush, dear, hush; tell me what he said, and speak lower.”
 
Ivanka spoke so low that I heard no more, but what had reached my ear was sufficient to let me know how the current ran, and I was not sorry that poor Bella’s mind shou............