n where they could look out upon a
majestic panorama of towering rock and snow.

Arabella Kinnaird gazed at it intently when she had shaken some of the
dew from the frills and folds of her rather bedraggled skirt.

"It will never be quite the same again," she observed, evidently in
reference to the latter, and then waved one hand as though to indicate
the panorama, for she was usually voluble and disconnected in her
conversation. "This, as I said last night, is wonderful--in fact, it
almost oppresses one. It makes one feel so little, and I'm not sure
that I like that, though no doubt it does one good."

Her companion smiled.

"Aren't you going to paint it?" she asked.

Miss Kinnaird pursed up her face, which was a trick she had.

"Oh," she said, "I don't know. After all, portraiture is my specialty,
and this silent grandeur is a little beyond my interpretation."

She paused, and added the next few words in an authoritative manner,
as though she had a truth of some consequence to deliver:

"The difficulty is that you really can't interpret anything until you
are quite sure what it means. You see, I'm feverishly restless by
temperament, and accustomed to indulge in all kinds of petty,
purposeless activities. They are petty, though the major calls them
duties--social duties--and being, I'm afraid, a rather frivolous
person in spite of my love of art, they appeal to me."

Ida said nothing. It was not necessary, and as a rule not advisable,
to encourage Arabella Kinnaird when she commenced, as she sometimes
described it, to talk seriously; and she rattled on:

"My dear, I'm all appreciation, and graciously pleased with the
wonders that you are showing me; but still this valley strikes me as
being short of something. It's too calm and quiet. Even Eden was not
complete until man appeared in it, though, as usual, he made trouble
shortly afterward. It is a thing he has kept on doing ever since."

Ida laughed.

"I'm not sure you're sticking to historical facts," she said.

"Facts," returned her companion, "don't count for much with me. I deal
in impressions; and sometimes I feel full of them. I could astonish
everybody if I could get them out; but that, of course, is the
difficulty. Feeling, unfortunately, isn't quite the same thing as
power of expression. Still, you asked me what I thought about these
mountains, and I'm trying to tell you. You have brought it on
yourself, you see. The key-tone of this place is an