ense clumps of evergreens, hidden
from the roads and from each other by trees and shrubbery separated by
valleys. One might live in one part of Semmering for a month and never
suspect the existence of other parts, or wander over steep roads and
paths for days and never pass twice over the same one. The Herr Doktor
might not see the American girl again--and if he did! Did he not see
American girls wherever he went?

The sleigh climbed on. It seemed they would never stop climbing. Below
in the valley twilight already reigned, a twilight of blue shadows, of
cows with bells wandering home over frosty fields, of houses with dark
faces that opened an eye of lamplight as one looked.

Across the valley and far above--Marie pointed without words. Her small
heart was very full. Greater than she had ever dreamed it, steeper, more
beautiful, more deadly, and crowned with its sunset hue of rose was the
Rax. Even Stewart lost his look of irritation as he gazed with her. He
reached over and covered both her hands with his large one under the
robe.

The sleigh climbed steadily. Marie Jedlicka, in a sort of ecstasy,
leaned back and watched the mountain; its crown faded from rose to gold,
from gold to purple with a thread of black. There was a shadow on the
side that looked like a cross. Marie stopped the sleigh at a wayside
shrine, and getting out knelt to say a prayer for the travelers who had
died on the Rax. They had taken a room at a small villa where board was
cheap, and where the guests were usually Germans of the thriftier
sort from Bavaria. Both the season and the modest character of the
establishment promised them quiet and seclusion.

To Marie the house seemed the epitome of elegance, even luxury. It clung
to a steep hillside. Their room, on the third floor, looked out from the
back of the building over the valley, which fell away almost sheer from
beneath their windows. A tiny balcony outside, with access to it by a
door from the bedroom, looked far down on the tops of tall pines. It
made Marie dizzy.

She was cheerful again and busy. The American trunk was to be unpacked
and the Herr Doktor's things put away, his shoes in rows, as he liked
them, and his shaving materials laid out on the washstand. Then there
was a new dress to put on, that she might do him credit at supper.

Stewart's bad humor had returned. He complained of the room and the
draft under the balcony door; the light was wrong for shaving. But the
truth