with spruce and pine and faint, aromatic
wintergreen. A hot little wind rocked the reflections in the river and
blew its wimpling surface into crinkled, lace-paper fantasies.

Overhead the sky burned blue through the white-cottonballs of cloud.

Bob Martin headed the procession, Ruth at his side, and the stout
widower concluded it, squiring a rather heavy-footed Mrs. Martin. Midway
in the line came Mrs. Blair, and beside her, abandoning the line of
young people behind the immediate leaders was a small figure in short
white skirt and middy, pressing closely to her Cousin Jane's side.

It was Maria Angelina, her dark hair braided as usual about her head,
her eyes a shade downcast and self-conscious, withdrawn and
tight-wrapped as any prudish young bud.

But if virginal pride had urged her to flee all appearance of
expectation, an equally sharp masculine reaction was withholding Johnny
Byrd from any appearance of pursuit.

He went from group to group, clowning it with jokes and laughter, and
only from the corners of his eyes perceiving that small figure, like a
child's in its white play clothes.

For half an hour that separation endured--a half hour in which Cousin
Jane told Maria Angelina all about her first mountain climb, when a
girl, and the storm that had driven herself and her sister and her
father and the guide to sleep in the only shelter, and of the guide's
snores that were louder than the thunder--and Maria Angelina laughed
somehow in the right places without taking in a word, for all the time
apprehension was tightening, tightening like a violin string about to
snap.

And then, when it was drawn so tight that it did not seem possible to
endure any more, Johnny Byrd appeared at Ri-Ri's side, conscious-eyed
and boyishly embarrassed, but managing an offhand smile.

"And is this the very first mountain you've ever climbed?" he demanded
banteringly.

Gladness rushed back into the girl. She raised a face that sparkled.

"The very first," she affirmed, very much out of breath. "That is, upon
the feet. In Italy we go up by diligence and there is always a hotel at
the top for tea."

"We'll have a little old bonfire at the top for tea. . . . Don't take it
so fast and you'll be all right," he advised, and, laying a restraining
hand upon her arm he held her back while Cousin Jane, with her casual,
careless smile, passed ahead to join one of the Martin party.

It was an act of masterful significance. Maria Ange