much trouble, sir," he
said.

"That," replied Kinnaird, "is how it strikes me. My daughter is rather
a good mountaineer, and Miss Stirling is just as anxious to make the
ascent. I may say that we have had some experience in Switzerland, not
to mention the hills among the English lakes. Do you know anything
about climbing?"

"No, sir," said Weston; "not as it is understood in Switzerland,
anyway. I don't suppose there's an ice-ax in the country, and I never
saw a party roped. Still, I have been up seven or eight thousand feet
several times."

"What were you doing?" asked Miss Kinnaird.

Weston saw the faint twinkle in Ida Stirling's eyes, and fancied that
he understood it. Very few of the inhabitants of that country climb
for pleasure, and it is difficult to obtain any of the regulation
mountaineering paraphernalia there; but when the wandering prospector
finds a snow-crested range in his way he usually scrambles over it and
carries his provisions and blankets along with him. The fact that
there are no routes mapped out, and no chalets or club shelters to
sleep in, does not trouble men of that kind.

"Once or twice we were on the gold trail," he said. "Another time I
packed for a couple of Englishmen who were looking for mountain
goats."

"Get any?" Kinnaird asked sharply.

"No, sir. We didn't even see one," said Weston; and again he noticed
Miss Stirling's smile.

"Well," said Kinnaird, "we are breaking camp tomorrow, and my idea is
that Mrs. Kinnaird should go on with the baggage in the canoes. The
rest of us will follow the bench, and after working around the head of
the big spur yonder come down again to the water by the other slope.
You are, of course, willing to make the ascent with us?"

"I am under your orders," said Weston. "Still, I shouldn't advise it."

"Why?"

It was rather difficult to answer. Weston could not tell the major
that he considered him a little too old for that work, or that he was
dubious about his daughter's stamina and courage. He had seen
self-confident strangers come down from those mountains dressed in
rags, with their boots torn off their bleeding feet. Besides, he felt
reasonably sure that, as he was not a professional guide, any advice
that he might feel it wise to offer would not be heeded.

"I have heard that there is thick timber on the other slope," he said.
"It's generally rather bad to get through."

Kinnaird, who never had been in really thick timber, dismissed