hafts of sunlight on the topmost crags of Corvatsch and
the Piz della Margna. Those far off summits were so startlingly vivid
in outline that they seemed to be more accessible than the mist
shrouded ravines cleaving their dun sides. It needed an effort of the
imagination to correct the erring testimony of the eye.

"The moods of the hills are variable, my lady,--femininely fickle, in
fact. There is a proverb that contrasts the wind with woman's mind;
but the disillusioned male who framed it evidently possessed little
knowledge of weather changes in the high Alps, or else he----"

"Did you beguile me out of my cozy room at six o'clock on a frosty
morning to regale me with stale jibes at my sex?"

"Perish the thought, Miss Wynton! My only intent was to explain that
the ancient proverb maker, meaning to be rude, might have found a
better simile."

"Meanwhile, I am so cold that the only mood left in my composition is
one of impatience to be moving."

"Well, I am ready."

"But where is our guide?"

"He has gone on in front with the porter."

"Porter! What is the man carrying?"

"The wherewithal to refresh ourselves when we reach the hut."

"Oh," said Helen, "I had no idea that mountaineering was such a
business. I thought the essentials were a packet of sandwiches and a
flask."

"You will please not be flippant. Climbing is serious work. And you
must moderate your pace. If you walk at that rate from here to Forno,
you will be very, very ill before you reach the hut."

"Ill! How absurd!"

"Not only absurd but disagreeable,--far worse than crossing the
Channel. Even old hands like me are not free from mountain sickness,
though it seizes us at higher altitudes than we shall reach to-day. In
the case of a novice, anything in the nature of hurrying during the
outward journey is an unfailing factor."

They were crossing the golf links, and the smooth path was tempting to
a good walker. Helen smiled as she accommodated herself to Bower's
slower stride. Though the man might possess experience, the woman had
the advantage of youth, the unattainable, and this wonderful hour
after dawn was stirring its ichor in her veins.

"I suppose that is what Stampa meant when he took 'Slow and Sure' for
his motto," she said.

"Stampa! Who is Stampa?"

There was a sudden rasp of iron in his voice. As a rule Bower spoke
with a cultivated languor that almost veiled the staccato accents of
the man of affairs. Helen was so surpri