CHAPTER XIII.
_My Dear Lucy_:--I am writing this in my room high up on the hillside of Lucerne, (Luzern) pronounced as if there were a "t" before the "z." The day is closing.

The light is yet bright on the mountains, but the lake lies in shadows.

The lamps are being lighted down below in the town and along the promenade.

I hear faintly the arrival of the steamer at the pier.
But let me begin at the beginning, and tell you what I have seen and done up to the present.

This telling is a poor substitute for the reality, I assure you; but as you have never been in Switzerland, you might be interested in the sights here--through my eyes! Let me say now, before I forget, that at every point of beauty and interest, I said in my heart, "O that Lucy could be here to enjoy this!" It really seemed selfish in me to be alone.