ye. She was poised, so to speak, on the shoulder of
Lost Mountain, a spot made cheerful and hospitable by her father's
industry, and by her own inspiring presence. The scene, indeed, was
almost portentous in its beauty. Away above her the summit of the
mountain was bathed in sunlight, while in the valley below the shadows
of dawn were still hovering--a slow-moving sea of transparent gray,
touched here and there with silvery reflections of light. Across the
face of the mountain that lifted itself to the skies, a belated cloud
trailed its wet skirts, revealing, as it fled westward, a panorama of
exquisite loveliness. The fresh, tender foliage of the young pines,
massed here and there against the mountain side, moved and swayed in the
morning breeze until it seemed to be a part of the atmosphere, a
pale-green mist that would presently mount into the upper air and melt
away. On a dead pine a quarter of a mile away, a turkey-buzzard sat with
wings outspread to catch the warmth of the sun; while far above him,
poised in the illimitable blue, serene, almost motionless, as though
swung in the centre of space, his mate overlooked the world. The wild
honeysuckles clambered from bush to bush, and from tree to tree,
mingling their faint, sweet perfume with the delicious odors that seemed
to rise from the valley, and float down from the mountain to meet in a
little whirlpool of fragrance in the porch where Miss Babe Hightower
stood. The flowers and the trees could speak for themselves; the
slightest breeze gave them motion: but the majesty of the mountain was
voiceless; its beauty was forever motionless. Its silence seemed more
suggestive than the lapse of time, more profound than a prophet's vision
of eternity, more mysterious than any problem of the human mind.

It is fair to say, however, that Miss Babe Hightower did not survey the
panorama that lay spread out below her, around her, and above her, with
any peculiar emotions. She was not without sentiment, for she was a
young girl just budding into womanhood, but all the scenery that the
mountain or the valley could show was as familiar to her as the
fox-hounds that lay curled up in the fence-corners, or the fowls that
crowed and clucked and cackled in the yard. She had discovered, indeed,
that the individuality of the mountain was impressive, for she was
always lonely and melancholy when away from it; but she viewed it, not
as a picturesque affair to wonder at, but as a companion