well."

Both were silent after that, and for the same reason. Neither could trust
his voice. Michel Revailloud picked up his hat, turned abruptly away and
walked out of the cafe into the throng of people. Chayne resumed his seat
and sat there, silent and thoughtful, until the street began to empty and
the musicians in the square ceased from their songs.

Meanwhile Michel Revailloud walked slowly down the street, stopping to
speak with any one he knew however slightly, that he might defer his
entrance into the dark and empty cottage at Les Praz-Conduits. He drew
near to the hotel where Chayne was staying and saw under the lamp above
the door a guide whom he knew talking with a young girl. The young girl
raised her head. It was she who had said, "I am sorry." As Michel came
within the circle of light she recognized him. She spoke quickly to the
guide and he turned at once and called "Michel," and when Revailloud
approached, he presented him to Sylvia Thesiger. "He has made many first
ascents in the range of Mont Blanc, mademoiselle."

Sylvia held out her hand with a smile of admiration.

"I know," she said. "I have read of them."

"Really?" cried Michel. "You have read of them--you, mademoiselle?"

There was as much pleasure as wonder in his tone. After all, flattery
from the lips of a woman young and beautiful was not to be despised, he
thought, the more especially when the flattery was so very well deserved.
Life had perhaps one or two compensations to offer him in his old age.

"Yes, indeed. I am very glad to meet you, Michel. I have known your name
a long while and envied you for living in the days when these mountains
were unknown."

Revailloud forgot the mules to the Montanvert and the tourists on the Mer
de Glace. He warmed into cheerfulness. This young girl looked at him with
so frank an envy.

"Yes, those were great days, mademoiselle," he said, with a thrill of
pride in his voice. "But if we love the mountains, the first ascent or
the hundredth--there is just the same joy when you feel the rough rock
beneath your fingers or the snow crisp under your feet. Perhaps
mademoiselle herself will some time--"

At once Sylvia interrupted him with an eager happiness--

"Yes, to-morrow," she said.

"Oho! It is your first mountain, mademoiselle?"

"Yes."

"And Jean here is your guide. Jean and his brother, I suppose?" Michel
laid his hand affectionately on the guide's shoulder. "You could not do
better, ma