Karl, who refused to be left out of the
conversation, "Johann Klucker's cat was sitting with its back to the
stove last evening."

This bit of homely philosophy brought a ripple of laughter from Helen,
whereupon Karl explained.

"Cats are very wise, _fraeulein_. Johann Klucker's cat is old.
Therefore she is skilled in reading the tokens of the weather. A cat
hates wind and rain, and makes her arrangements accordingly. If she
washes herself smoothly, the next twelve hours will be fine. If she
licks against the grain, it will be wet. When she lies with her back
to the fire, there will surely be a squall. When her tail is up and
her coat rises, look out for wind."

"Johann Klucker's cat has settled the dispute," said Bower gravely in
English. "A squall it is,--a most suitable prediction for a cat,--and
I am once more rehabilitated in your esteem, I hope?"

A cold iridescence suddenly illumined the gloomy interior of the hut.
It gave individuality to each particle of sleet whirling past the
door. Helen thought that the sun had broken through the storm clouds
for an instant; but Bower said quietly:

"Are you afraid of lightning?"

"Not very. I don't like it."

"Some people collapse altogether when they see it. Perhaps when
forewarned you are forearmed."

A low rumble boomed up the valley, and the mountain echoes muttered in
solemn chorus.

"We are to be spared none of the scenic accessories, then?" said
Helen.

"None. In fact, you will soon see and hear a thunder storm that would
have delighted Gustave Dore. Please remember that it cannot last long,
and that this hut has been built twenty years to my knowledge."

Helen sipped her coffee, but pushed away a plate set before her by
Barth. "If you don't mind, I should like the door wide open," she
said.

"You prefer to lunch later?"

"Yes."

"And you wish to face the music--is that it?"

"I think so."

"Let me remind you that Jove's thunderbolts are really forged on the
hilltops."

"I am here; so I must make the best of it. I shall not scream, or
faint, if that is what you dread."

"I dread nothing but your anger for not having turned back when a
retreat was possible. I hate turning back, Miss Wynton. I have never
yet withdrawn from any enterprise seriously undertaken, and I was
determined to share your first ramble among my beloved hills."

Another gleam of light, bluer and more penetrating than its
forerunner, lit the brown rafters of the _cabane_.