e Larry roused himself.
Then he, too, went out and surveyed the sky with practiced eye.

"Clear and cool--that argues well for me. If it were warm, now, I'd
hardly like to start. Sometimes the snow holds off for weeks in this
weather."

They stood in the pallid light of the early morning an hour before the
sun, and the wind lifted Larry's hair and flapped his shirt sleeves
about his arms. It was a tingling, sharp breeze, and when they
returned to the cave, where they went for Harry's lesson in smelting,
the old man's cheeks were ruddy.

The sun had barely risen when the lesson was over, and they descended
for breakfast. Amalia had all ready for them, and greeted Larry from
the doorway.

"Good morning, Sir Kildene. You start soon. I have many good things to
eat all prepare to put in your bag, and when you sit to your dinner on
the long way, it is that you must think of Amalia and know that she
says a prayer to the sweet Christ, that he send his good angels to
watch over you all the way you go. A prayer to follow you all the way
is good, is not?" Amalia's frank and untrammeled way of referring to
Divinity always precipitated a shyness on Larry,--a shyness that
showed itself in smiles and stammering.

"Good--good--yes. Good, maybe so." Harry had turned back to bring down
Larry's horse and pack mule. "Now, while we eat,--Harry will be down
soon, we won't wait for him,--while we eat, let me go over the things
I'm to find for you down below. I must learn the list well by heart,
or you may send me back for the things I've missed bringing."

As they talked Amalia took from her wrist a heavy bracelet of gold,
and from a small leather bag hidden in her clothing, a brooch of
emeralds, quaintly set and very precious. Her mother sat in one of her
trancelike moods, apparently seeing nothing around her, and Amalia
took Larry to one side and spoke in low tones.

"Sir Kildene, I have thought much, and at last it seems to me right to
part with these. It is little that we have--and no money, only these.
What they are worth I have no knowledge. Mother may know, but to her I
say nothing. They are a memory of the days when my father was noble
and lived at the court. If you can sell them--it is that this brooch
should bring much money--my father has told me. It was saved for my
dowry, with a few other jewels of less worth. I have no need of dowry.
It is that I never will marry. Until my mother is gone I can well care
for her with the